Prompt Challenge Drabble Collection
by Starr Dust
Summary: A collection of shorts that were written for challenges and request meme over on LJ. Slash, Mylar, and some Mpreg
1. 3 Mylar Mpregs, Plaude

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Heroes

The basic idea behind this collection is that I wanted to share some of the fics I wrote as responses to prompts/challenges that I did over on Livejournal without flooding with my stories (although they could certainly use more Mylar around here). Keep in mind that each story is stand alone and comes with their own warnings. This drabbles will mainly feature Mylar, but there will be some Plaude thrown in. Also, as usual there will be plenty of slash and mpreg to go around. Feel free to skip around and read what you please.

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**Pairing:** Sylar/Mohinder  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Prompt/Request:** Can I get some Mohinder/Sylar mpreg? I'd prefer if Mohinder was the one who was pregnant, but either one is just fine.  
**Warnings:** Mpreg, Language, Mild Spoilers for Season 3

Mohinder groaned, gripping the side of his desk as he felt his baby give another massive kick to his insides. It had been a long day. He'd spent nine tiring hours on his swollen feet doing just about every mindless task that the new Company asked him to preform while his unborn child squirmed around inside of him, kicking his insides like a hyperactive soccer player. His back was killing him, his feet were screaming, his eyes were so heavy he felt certain they'd slip close any second now, and his baby would _not_ settle down.

"I love seeing you like this," Sylar murmured as he came up behind him, wrapping his strong arms around his swollen middle. The geneticist shuddered as he felt the "reformed" serial killer's possessive grip on his massive belly. "Big and all mine."

The frightening thing was that he knew that it was true. There was nothing that Sylar found more arousing than seeing Mohinder big and pregnant with their bastard child. It was, after all, undeniable evidence that the two of them had had sex. Mohinder had tried to hide it. He had attempted to go around telling everyone that he didn't know whose child he was carrying (he'd rather be seen as a slut than someone who would fuck the man who'd killed his father), but Sylar and his damn lie detection ability saw right through him.

Mohinder felt himself scowl as Sylar pressed fierce kisses onto his heated neck. He knew that he would be trapped like this forever. Now that Sylar knew that he was able to conceive and carry a child to term, the serial killer would aim to keep him pregnant for as long as possible. After all, the man still very much believed that he was the next step in human evolution, and a natural part of evolution is producing offspring to carry on your genetic code. Even if Sylar were practically "immortal" thanks to Claire's ability, it wasn't unimaginable that one day someone would come along and make an honest to God attempt to kill him and finally find his damn "off switch." Having children was just another way to insure his legacy.

"Don't bother me," Mohinder growled, pushing away from the taller man irritably. "I've had a long day."

Sylar only smiled wickedly at him. "Well then let's just go home and I can rub those feet of yours."

The geneticist pouted as he allowed himself to be led away by the ex-murderer. As much as he hated Sylar and his obsession with him, he had to admit, the man gave a fantastic foot massage.

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**Pairing:** Gabriel/Mohinder  
**Rating:** G  
**Prompt/Request:** Hey, there! Can I get some Mohinder/Mylar kid!fic? Meaning that either through adoption or mpreg, they are raising a child together. Thanks!  
**Warnings:** Fluff, Implied Mpreg

Gabriel smiled as he placed the blue stuffed elephant just out of the baby's chubby brown hands. His son gurgled and cooed as he tried in vain to reach for the offered toy. Gabriel wouldn't let him have it just yet, not until he got what he wanted.

"Papa has a present for you," he cooed, shaking the elephant so it looked like it was dancing in mid-air. "Do you want it, Kavi? Do you want the elephant?"

Kavi babbled, leaning forward and stretching his fingers until they just barely touched the soft fabric of the elephant's foot before Gabriel quickly pulled it away. The man watched with mild amusement as the infant's button nose scrunched up in displeasure, even at less than a year old the child was just like his other father.

Gabriel laughed wrapping an arm around Kavi and cradling him at his side. "I'll give you Dumbo," he began playfully. "If you say 'Papa.' Can you say 'Papa?'"

"Gabriel!" an outraged voice suddenly called, causing the pale man to flinch nervously. "Are you honestly trying to _bribe_ the baby into talking?"

Gabriel bowed his head sheepishly. He could almost feel Mohinder's brown eyes burning holes in his back. "Can't blame me for trying," he mumbled. "Besides, I just want to hear his first words."

He practically heard Mohinder rolling his eyes in annoyance as he walked up beside him, snatching the elephant doll from his limp fingers and gently placing it within Kavi's grasp. The baby beamed up at Mohinder, as he clutched his new playmate to his chest, suckling a floppy ear between his lips.

"He'll talk when he's ready to talk," Mohinder chided, rapping Gabriel playfully on the head before walking out of the room.

Gabriel frowned, adjusting Kavi's weight in his arms as he lifted himself off of the ground, following Mohinder into the kitchen. "What if he doesn't talk in time?" Gabriel pushed. "What if he doesn't learn how to walk on time either? He could fall behind all the other children. He'll have to take special classes and be ridiculed by the other students. He won't get into a good college, or get a good job, and he'll end up living at home with us forever and-"

"Do you hear the words coming out of your mouth?" Mohinder laughed, his eyes never leaving the cutting board in front of him. "You're turning into your mother!"

The taller man frowned, although he knew that his partner was right. Fatherhood certainly had turned him into a fretful parent. His mind seemed to constantly fill with fears over injuries, infections, drugs, gangs, violence on TV, sex on TV, and hip hop music. He never would have guessed that having a child would turn him into such a worrier.

"I can't help it," he shrugged, bouncing the infant on his hip. "I just want what's best for him."

Mohinder sighed, peeling his eyes away from his task to meet his lover's troubled gaze. "He'll have the best," the Indian man assured him, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. "He has us to love him. That's all that matters. Now stop worrying. Here. Let's trade places."

Gabriel easily slipped the baby into his partner's carefully arms, watching as Kavi kicked his legs happily, his little fists never releasing their hold on his blue elephant. The man smiled as Mohinder kissed their son's soft brown curls and whispered tender words to him in Tamil. He was just about to pick up the knife and continue chopping up the vegetables for dinner, when suddenly a small voice caught his attention.

"Mama."

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**Pairing:** Sylar/Mohinder  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Prompt/Request:** Can I get some mpreg breastfeeding? I really like Mylar or Petrellicest, but any other pairing is fine. Thanks!  
**Warnings:** Mpreg, Language, Spoilers for Season 3, Man breastfeeding!

Mohinder gasped, squirming uncomfortably as tiny little lips continued to suckle hungrily on his swollen nipple. When his body had mutated nearly a year ago, he had thought that the unsightly scales and the near blinding agony that would periodically shoot through his body had been the worst of his side effects. Little did he realize that there was a change going on inside of him as well.

It was nearly four months after he had found a "cure" for his deformity -- and had allowed Sylar to fuck him out of pure desperation and loneliness right in the middle of his lab in Pinehearst -- that he discovered that he was pregnant. Five long and difficult months later, Sylar had reappeared -- very much alive and "rehabilitated" -- and Mohinder had given birth to a beautiful baby girl.

The two men had eventually agreed to live together, so that Sylar could have a hand in raising their child and so Mohinder could monitor Sylar's progress. Their living situation was awkward at the best of times and violent at the worst. Yet, much to Mohinder's dismay, the two began to slowly fall into a routine and began behaving like a married couple. Sylar would clean, Mohinder would cook, and they would both take turns fussing over the baby. Although, the majority of the baby related duties fell to Mohinder since he was the "mother," and as such the baby took comfort in his presence more than anyone else's.

Yet never in all his years would he have ever imagined himself breastfeeding. Breastfeeding! Of all the side effects that had come with his experiment, this one had to be the strangest. He had suspected as much when he began to notice the way his chest had started to feel very soft and tender during his pregnancy, but he hadn't expected to actually be able to nurse his child!

But Sylar had insisted, arguing that breast milk would be healthier for their daughter than any artificial formula would be. Mohinder had reluctantly agreed, only to discover that Sylar was actually aroused by the sight of him nursing their child. Mohinder wasn't surprised really. Sylar had been a virgin far too long, and as a side effect, everything Mohinder did seemed to turn him on.

Sylar was practically purring as he came up behind the Indian man, wrapping his lips around the juncture of his neck and began to suck down fiercely on his sensitive skin.

The geneticist grimaced at the usually arousing act. He felt like he was being pulled in two different directions with his daughter on one end, staring up at him sleepily begging for him to make "Daddy" go away so she could finish feeding in peace and Sylar on the opposite end, running his tongue temptingly over his skin, pleading with him to put their child to bed so they could "play." It was easy for him to choose which one to give in to.

"Stop it," he snapped, taking his free hand and shoving Sylar away. "You know it upsets the baby when you do that."

"Is it really the baby that's upset or 'Mommy'?" Sylar teased, pressing himself closer to his lover and running his hands over the geneticist's tense shoulders.

"Don't start with me!" Mohinder warned. His hormones were still acting up, but fortunately he was more irritable than weepy. He'd rather rage than cry.

"I can finish with you if you want," he grinned kissing the shell of his lover's ear. "Just put little Kanti to bed."

"She just started feeding!"

"Well when you're done," he purred, giving Mohinder's ear a loving flick with his tongue, "you know where to find me." With that, the serial killer disappeared into their shared bedroom. Mohinder frowned. He was going to make sure to punish him for being such a distracting tease.

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**Pairing:** Peter/Claude  
**Rating:** PG  
**Prompt/Request:** Peter/Claude: Surprise Me.  
**Warnings:** Angst, Mild Season 3 Spoilers

Peter felt his head jerk up in shock as Mama Cass began playing over his clock radio. The young man let out a frustrated groan as he studied the glowing red digits that told him it was time to get up and get ready for work. Another day of tending to the sick and injured in the back of a bumpy ambulance. Wonderful.

He scowled as he pressed the snooze button roughly, interrupting the artist's song about how things were "getting better." His back popped pleasently as he stretched himself out across the large bed, hoping to clear the sleepy fog his mind was still wrapped in. It started to fade away when he remembered that he shouldn't be able to move around quite so freely. He frowned, propping himself up on his elbows as he studied the empty room.

Confused, the paramedic slipped out of bed and pulled on a pair of boxers before stumbling into the living room. He was only mildly surprised when he saw that the television had been left on with only a hand full of empty beer bottles to keep it company. Peter yawned, searching the messy room with blurry eyes for the remote. When he couldn't locate it, he carefully walked over to the television -- being mindful not to step on the throw pillows tossed carelessly to the ground or the once neatly placed books that had been knocked to the floor -- and pressed the power button.

"I was watching that."

He practically lept out of his skin when the gruff voice suddenly greeted his ears. Spinning around on his heels, he was genuinely surprised to see that Claude had suddenly emurged from the guest bathroom. He was over joyed to see that he was still there, but a knot of worry began to form inside of him when he noticed that the other man looked as if he were getting ready to go.

"I'm sure you were," Peter laughed quietly, tossing his hair out of his eyes as he headed towards the kitchen. "Wanna stay for breakfast? My waffle iron's still busted, but I could make us some square pancakes and call them waffles."

Nathan had taught him that trick, back when the word "fun" was still in his vocabulary. The young man quickly gathered the necessary tools, mindful that he didn't really have the time to make breakfast for himself let alone Claude, but he just wanted him to stay a little while longer.

"Nah, some other time," Claude grumbled, adjusting his coat as he slowly headed towards the door. "I'm off."

"Yeah, because you really need to get an early start on harashing people and talking to pigeons."

Peter felt his cheeks flush as the older man turned to glare at him. He had spoken the words louder than he'd intended, but he didn't really care. He had just wanted one morning where he could wake up with Claude still around. He didn't understand why the other man always had to leave. What was the point of even coming back if they only saw each other at night?

The British man straightened his back as he came towards him as if he had something important to say, but no words left his lips. Instead, he just gave his shoulders an awkward pat and walked away. Peter frowned when he heard the door open and close, wondering if it would do him any good to just change the locks.


	2. Sylar in Matt's body

**Pairing:** Sylar!Matt/Mohinder, implied Matt/Mohinder  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Prompt/Request:** "Mohinder rushes over to help his ol' honeybunch Matt, but little does he know who's _really_ under his skin."  
**Warnings:** Slash, implied non-con, Spoilers up to 4x06

Mohinder felt his heart pounding like a drum in his chest as he pulled up in front of the midsized Californian home. The messages Matt Parkman had left him were both cryptic and frightened and sent a feeling of dread coursing through the Indian's being. He and Matt didn't always see things eye to eye and it was more than common for the two stubborn men to butt heads, but he still counted the American as a close friend, one of the few he had left.

His first instinct had been to call Matt back and ask what was wrong, but the man's answer was vague to say the least. "Just come," he'd told him. "Come to California. I need to see you."

He had been hesitant at first, but he knew Matt well enough to know that if the police officer was asking for help then he was in serious trouble.

The geneticist felt a knot of worry form in the pit of his stomach as he rapped quickly on the wooden framing of the glass door. He held his breath, counting the seconds until he saw a blurry figure approaching from the other side of the opaque glass that made up the majority of the entrance. The door swung open to reveal a mildly surprised and rather calm looking Matt Parkman.

"Mohinder," he greeted, pulling the smaller man into a friendly hug. "You came."

The Indian man stiffened at the contact. Something was definitely wrong. Matt was a lot of things, but he wasn't the affectionate type. The other man rarely ever hugged or touched him. The only time Mohinder could clearly recall Parkman giving him such a gesture was when the two parted ways in Washington.

"Of course I came," Mohinder said, pushing back the troubled thoughts brewing in his head as the taller man released him from his embrace. Matt was obviously not himself. Perhaps this affectionate gesture was just a result of whatever was upsetting him. "You asked for my help and I'm here to do what I can."

Matt smiled at him, studying the smaller man carefully, and a shudder suddenly spread across Mohinder's being. There was something familiar about the way his friend was staring at him. Something completely foreign to the man he had lived with for nearly a year.

"Well, it's kinda funny," Matt began, stepping aside to allow Mohinder to enter, "the crisis is sort of averted."

"What?" he asked, a frown crossing his features even as he stepped inside.

"Yeah," he shrugged, closing the door softly behind the Indian. Mohinder found himself jumping slightly when his friend twisted the lock shut, suddenly feeling as if he were being trapped inside. "I thought my powers were going out of whack, but I guess I was wrong. Everything's under control. But, hey, you're here now. Why don't we catch up a bit?"

Mohinder said nothing. He merely watched as Matt disappeared towards the living area. It was still late summer and the California afternoon was pleasantly mild, but a shiver still coursed through his being as his friend flicked on a radio, flooding the middle class house with music. A slow, soothing melody soon filled the air and sent Mohinder's senses into high alert.

"You want anything to drink?" Matt called from somewhere deep inside the house and Mohinder suddenly wondered if it would be a good idea to just leave.

"No, thank you," he told him, hesitantly stepping further into the modern house and studying his surroundings carefully. Everything looked normal. This may have been his first time in the Parkman home, but from what he could see, everything seemed to be in its right place. The d cor was colorful, yet tasteful. The walls were a creamy white that perfectly matched the hard wood floors.

Pictures of Matt and his family decorated nearly every available surface and Mohinder suddenly felt very lonely. He remembered when they had been a family. Living in his father's New York apartment with Molly and Matt had been awkward and frustrating at first, but had soon become so warm and familiar. He missed the tight bond that they had formed. He missed coming home to an apartment full of life and noise instead of one filled with nothing but shadows and echoes of the past.

"You sure?" Matt pushed. "I've got tea if you want. It's chai."

A cold feeling filled his stomach at Matt's words, but he pushed it aside. Chai had always been his tea of choice and he drank it quite frequently when the two were living together. He shouldn't read too much into such things.

"Sure," he agreed reluctantly as he approached the modernly furnished living room. The room contained two stylish black couches, a lit fireplace, and a glass coffee table with a tray of red and green apples resting on top. "Where are Janice and Matty?"

"Out," he said simply, walking back into the living room with a smug smile on his face. "We've got the whole house to ourselves. Take a seat."

The geneticist was surprised when he found himself obeying the police officer's request in spite of the anxious feelings swelling inside of him. Something was wrong, but he just couldn't put his finger on it.

Matt let out a soft sigh as he plopped down on the couch next him, his side pressed against Mohinder's and as he flung his arm over the back of the chair, behind the geneticist's back. Mohinder felt his face flush as the other man continued to stare at him with his piercing gaze, studying him from head to toe as if he hadn't seen him in years.

"The tea will be ready in a bit," Matt said casually. "Let's talk."

"Matthew, what's going on?" Mohinder asked him, no longer wanting to take part in this strange game. "You're not acting like yourself."

Matt shook his head dismissively at Mohinder's words. "I feel fine," he assured him. "Better than ever."

"But you-" His words were cut off as Matt quickly cupped his cheek, turning his head to smash their lips together in a harsh kiss. Mohinder gasped and pushed the large man away, embarrassed to admit that his skin was tingling with desire even as he held the other man at arm's length. He'd always been attracted to Matt, but between the other man's feelings for Janice and his relationship with Daphne there had never really been a place for him in his friend's heart. "Matt! You're married!"

"Never stopped us before," Matt teased, pressing closer, but Mohinder's hold stayed strong.

_"Don't fight me."_ He heard the words in his head like a warm whisper in the back of his mind. The voice was strange, yet familiar and the cold feeling inside of him spread all the way to the tips of his fingers. _"You want this. You want me."_

Mohinder trembled as his arms went limp, falling slowly to his side and allowing Matt to grab him roughly by his shoulders. "You're not Matthew," he whispered, even as his friend, the man who was controlling his friend, placed burning hot kissed along his jaw, down his neck, and running his strong hands over his body.

"Who am I?" the man whispered, pulling away just to lift Mohinder's shirt over his head. "Say it."

"Sylar."


	3. Mind Wiped Sylar

Okay, I'm really confused about the whole content guidelines here. I know that decided a few years back that they weren't going to allow graphic sexual material anymore, but I've been browsing through some fics and I've encountered what I feel is some pretty graphic sex scenes. I'm not pointing fingers or naming names, but I just want to know, what can be posted? Is this just a rule that is not strictly enforced or is it just not off the wall kinky stuff that's not allowed?

**Pairing:** Mohinder/Sylar  
**Rating:** R  
**Prompt/Request:** For the mylar_fic Bi-weekly Challenge. Quote: _"You look like the perfect version of a pathetic person now" - Nobody's Sweetheart by Simon Wilcox_  
**Warnings:** Angst, Spoilers for Vol 5, Slight AU

"Sylar."

The word barely passes his lips, but it's enough. The name alone is all it takes to make the man in front of him squirm, flinching away like a beaten dog. "No," he whispered, shaking his head slowly and wringing his pale hands nervously. "No, that's not me."

Mohinder frowned in confusion. It was him. There was no mistaking it. The name, the face, the voice were forever burned into his subconscious. His saw that face whenever he blinked. He heard that voice whispering to him in the dead of night. He still shuddered when even the faintest whisper of that name was uttered.

Yet the man before him was nothing like that nightmare that had haunted him for so long. Even with the man's impressive height, he still seemed so small and fragile, sitting there, hunched over in worry, panic flashing in his too wide eyes, and staring up at him as if to beg for the Indian man to take all the bad dreams and lies away.

"Well, who are you then?" he began cautiously. "Gabriel?"

Much to the geneticist's surprise, he flinched again, just as terrified by that name as his pseudonym. "No," he answered quickly, still trembling with fear. "That's not me either." His eyes darted around the room as he passed a nervous hand through his slick black hair.

Mohinder shook his head at the sight. Everything was all wrong. This wasn't Sylar. This was not the man he had come here to kill. He remembered how the strange man, Samuel, had coerced him into coming here. He had told Mohinder that he needed him to help someone -- an old acquaintance as he had put it -- remember his past. When the geneticist had discovered the person in question was Sylar, revenge had instantly come to mind.

He could still do it right now. It would be easy, too easy, to just reach out and wrap his hands around that frightened neck. He could picture it all so clearly even as he stood there watching the pale figure. The sounds of bones crunching under his dark fingers would fill the air as the man gasped and clawed at his arms pathetically. His eyes would bulge and his face would turn an ugly shade of purple. And then there would be nothing, just a limp body lying in a rundown trailer, the end of one miserable life to give peace to countless others.

Yet his hands stayed motionless at his side. His fingers twitched, but he did nothing. The monster was gone, vanquished and all that was left was a hollow shell, a creature that was nothing but a shadow of his former self.

"What is your name then?" he asked again, taking a hesitant step towards the frightened man. The Indian was mildly surprised that his cautious approach did not cause the man in front of him to shrink even further into himself.

The man said nothing. He merely shook his head back and forth slowly. Mohinder could tell he wanted to say something, but the words were stuck on his tongue, struggling to break free.

"I don t know," he said after what felt like an eternity had passed between them. He looked at him then. His dark eyes were wide with a strange mixture of fear and hope. Those were not the eyes of a serial killer. "Are you going to make me remember?"

Mohinder was silent as he took a seat beside him on the lumpy pull out bed. The man bounced slightly with the sudden movement, but he did not move away from Mohinder's awkward from. "Do you _want_ to remember?"

His gaze stayed steady on Mohinder's face, his thick brows furrowing slightly as he considered the Indian man's words. "Gabriel Gray. Sylar. They're both killers." He frowned, shaking his head slowly at the thought. "They're not me. I... I want to remember, but I don't want to be like that. Not anymore."

Mohinder smiled, resting a friendly hand on the other man's shoulder. "You don't have to be."

The man fell silent for a moment, an uncertain look flashing in his eyes as he shifted closer towards Mohinder's side. Suddenly the Indian had to resist the urge to flinch away himself. "You and me," he began quietly, trying to piece the words together in just the right fashion. "Were we friends?"

"No," Mohinder said, blunt and to the point. Yet the hurt look caught his eye and he couldn't stop himself from grasping that pale hand in his own and giving it a gentle squeeze. "But we could be."

The man smiled at him. A smile that did not belong to a serial killer.


	4. Mylar Attempted Mpreg

**Pairing:** Sylar/Mohinder  
**Rating:** PG  
**Prompt/Request:** Assignment: Baby  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own Heroes.  
**Warnings:** Slash, Humor, Attempted Mpreg, Mild spoilers for Season 3

Mohinder hissed clutching the sheets between his long fingers and clenching his teeth together as pale hands ran up and down his sides. He turned his head buried his face into his pillow, squeezing his eyes shut, as the man on top of him caressed his stubble covered cheek against his flat stomach before lapping at the smooth brown flesh. His skin was peppered with goose bumps as Sylar began planting tender kisses across his body, breathing in his aroma and grinding his hardened length against his side.

"S-stop," Mohinder whispered, only to have the serial killer hum appreciatively as he continued to nip at his sensitive skin. "Stop," he said again, this time pushing at the man's broad shoulders. "Stop. Get off of me."

Sylar groaned as he reluctantly tore his lips away from Mohinder's body and looked the geneticist in the eyes. His dark orbs were burning with frustration and anger, but Mohinder couldn't really find it in himself to care. "What?" he snapped. "What is it now?"

"You were kissing me," he said pointedly, raising himself up by his elbows. "I told you before we started this: no kissing."

The serial killer rolled his eyes in annoyance at the Indian's words. "I thought you meant 'no kissing' as in 'no kissing on the _lips_.'"

"No kissing means _no kissing_!" the geneticist snapped.

Sylar let out an exaggerated sigh as he rubbed his weary face with his hands. "You're kidding me, right?" he grumbled. "How am I supposed to do this if I can't kiss you?"

Now it was Mohinder's turn to roll his eyes. "I assure you, Sylar, kissing is _not_ a vital part of this process."

"You can't make love without kissing," Sylar pointed out and Mohinder found himself shuddering in response.

"We're not 'making love,'" he groused. "We're making a baby."

Sylar scowled, a look of disgust lighting his pale features. "That's cold."

"Well in this case it's the truth," Mohinder pointed out.

An awkward silence quickly fell on the two men as they sat in bed, neither knowing what to say or where to look.

The geneticist sighed as he slipped out from between the clean white sheets, his orange and yellow briefs clinging to his hips as he did so. "I'm sorry," Mohinder grumbled and for a second he actually was, "but this whole concept is so... different."

Sylar frowned, cocking his head to the side questioningly as he watched the other man pace the room. "Different how?"

"It's just... different," Mohinder shrugged. It was hard for him to put his feelings into words. This night was supposed to be about making a child and the idea, while exciting, filled him a sense of urgency and importance that he had never experienced before in relation to sex. "I'm no blushing virgin," he began, trying to put his thoughts together as best as he could, "but the idea of going to bed with someone and expecting results is new to me."

The serial killer nodded thoughtfully and for the first time Mohinder saw the hesitance in the other man's demeanor.

When Sylar had come to him proposing that they conceive a child together, Mohinder was hesitant to say the least. Sylar was, and would always be, the man who had murdered his father and countless others, yet the American was adamant in his choice to breed with Mohinder and no one else. "I want to produce genetically superior offspring," he had told him. "The others are broken, weak, and fragile. We're better. We're _above_ them. With our combined genetic code, our progeny would have limitless potential."

As cold and calculated as Sylar's words had been, they still struck a chord with Mohinder. The Indian man was in his mid-thirties, unmarried, and completely focused on his work. His biological clock was ticking and at the moment, Sylar seemed to be his only option left when it came to having a child and being able to pass on the Suresh name.

And now here they were, faced with an act that would change both of their lives and tie the two of them together forever. The task was, in every sense of the phrase, easier said than done. They had been here before, they had done this before, but back then there had been different names and motivations behind it all. Now, there were just two lonely men desperate to add meaning to their lives.

"I know it's hard," Sylar began, sliding off of the bed with little regard for his lack of clothing, "but... it'll be worth it." He paused, waiting for Mohinder to respond, but the Indian couldn't really think of anything else to say. "You said you wanted this."

Mohinder remained silent as he chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. In truth he did want this. He wanted an innocent little creature to love and call his own, to help guide the child through the stages of life and nurture and care for it in ways he had felt neglected of in his youth. Yet doing all this and knowing that Sylar would be involved made his stomach tighten with doubt.

"If you want me to be the one to carry it," Sylar began, but Mohinder was already shaking his head before the other man could finish his thought.

"No, we've talked about this," he said wearily. "You're a wanted man and there are countless people who want your head on a stick. Besides, I have a stable job and a home. If you want to see the baby, it would be easier for you to just come to me as opposed to me having to track you down."

It also gave Mohinder the option of taking the child away if things became too difficult. It was a fact that Mohinder had never verbalized, but he knew that Sylar was aware of it.

"Then... is it me?"

Mohinder stiffened and that was all the answer Sylar needed.

Sylar sighed, pushing back his long, slick hair with a tired hand. "I thought we talked about _that_," he said pointedly.

"You killed my father, Sylar," Mohinder reminded him, although he obviously didn't need to. "It's not something I can just put on the shelf, even for the sake of creating a new life."

The serial killer shook his head as he approached Mohinder's nervous form. "Just... don't think, just answer," he began. "Do you want this baby?"

"Yes," he breathed, knowing in his heart that he didn't just want it, he _needed_ it.

"Do you want to carry it?"

"Yes."

"Do you love me?"

And that was one answer that he could not push out without thinking over. Sylar was a killer, a sociopath, and a cruel, horrible person, but he was also the only constant in his life, the one person who seemed to care whether he lived or died, and was deceptively gentle when he wanted to be. "Yes," he said finally. A single tear managed to slip out of his eye, but he quickly wiped it away with the pad of his thumb. "Yes I do."

Sylar smiled. It was everything he had ever wanted to hear. "Alright then," he practically beamed, wrapping his long arms around Mohinder's thin waist. "Let's make a baby."

Mohinder couldn't help laughing at the absurdity of it all even as he allowed Sylar to press burning hot kisses against his skin. By morning their task would be over and in a week they would see if their attempts had been fruitful. Mohinder was certain that they were going to have many more nights like this, just to guarantee their success.


	5. Plaude, Mylar, Gabehinder

**Pairing:** Peter/Claude  
**Rating:** Hard R  
**Prompt/Request:** Peter/Claude - sex in public, bonus for Nathan watching. ((Didn't go through with that last part))  
**Warnings:** Slash, PWP, Humor (Feel free to skip ahead if sex makes you uncomfortable)

Peter felt his whole body flush from head to toe as Claude continued to press down on to his slighter form, planting forceful kisses along his jaw and down his neck. He bit down on his lip, fighting back against the urge to moan as Claude's hands began wandering down south, tugging at his belt loops. This was wrong. So wrong. They shouldn't be doing this. Not here. They should be at home, in his nice, warm bed, a bed that was more than big enough for two people.

"We shouldn't be doing this," Peter whispered, placing his hands on Claude's broad shoulders, but not bothering to push him away. "We're gonna get caught."

"Won't get caught," Claude mumbled, his fingers traveling to the paramedic's zipper. "Ya just have to stay quiet like a good poodle."

"But... Nathan," he whimpered, just before Claude covered his mouth with a harsh kiss.

Peter's heart hammered and his face turned even redder when he heard the too loud sound of his fly being undone. Even under the cloak of invisibility he still felt very opened and exposed. A whiney little voice in the back of his head was screaming that they were going to get caught. Any second now Nathan was going to walk through that door and there would be hell to pay. He never should have let Claude talk him into having sex in his brother's office. It was tacky to say the least, and the only one getting off on it seemed to be Claude.

The younger man shivered slightly, as the British man pulled his pants down lower. The sudden mix of cold air and the polished wood on his exposed skin sent goose bumps running up and down his body.

"I don't wanna do this," Peter whined, ignoring the painfully obvious erection that he was currently sporting.

"I think ya do," Claude smirked, adjusting Peter so that his legs were wrapped around his waist and his back was pressed flat against hard surface of the bureau acting in place of the bed they _should_ be doing this on.

Peter was about to complain again, about to point out how incredibly wrong all this was, when Claude suddenly slipped two fingers into his mouth, wordlessly ordering Peter to suck. It was then that Peter realized that this was happening, whether he liked it or not. He groaned, sucking and placing as much spit as he could on the two digits, no longer intent on struggling or trying to get out of this. After all, it could be worse. Much worse.

The former nurse heard Claude's fly zip open just as the Brit pulled his fingers out from between Peter's lips with an audible pop. He quivered slightly as Claude pressed one finger inside of him and then another. He arched his back clear off the bureau, moaning wantonly. All thoughts of right and wrong had disappeared from his head as his whole being trembled with need.

"Claude... please..."

The British man grunted, complying with the paramedic's plea as he pulled his fingers out and quickly replaced them with his cock.

Peter barely had time to gasp or groan or even adjust to the new presence when suddenly the sound of a far too familiar voice came from the other side of the door. Panic washed over him as his whole body broke out in a cold sweat and he struggled to control his breathing.

"Claude," he whispered urgently, pulling the other man closer and squeezing his waist tightly in sheer panic. "We have to get out of here."

"Relax," the other man said, his voice several octaves too loud for Peter's comfort. "He won't see us."

"That's not the point!" he groused. Invisible or not the last thing he wanted was to be in the same room, the same _building_ as Nathan while he was doing _this_. True, he had walked in on his sibling having sex more times than he would like to count, but that was different. He had never caught Nathan fucking someone in his room.

Then again...

Before the memories could even begin to form in his head, he felt the other man begin to move inside of him, rocking back and forth with a wicked smirk on his features.

"_Claude_!" Peter hissed just before his irritation melted into arousal. "Claude," he breathed.

Yet the clear creak of the door followed by his brother's annoyed grunt pulled his mind back into the situation at hand. He held his breath, biting his lip until he was certain he could taste blood, and prayed to whatever God would take pity on him that this was all a terrible and incredibly awkward dream that he would wake up from any minute now.

As if to torture him further, or to fulfill some sick desire to get caught, Claude suddenly let out a loud grunt and Peter had to slap his hand over the older man's mouth to stifle it.

Nathan's head jerked up, a confused scowl spread across his features as he looked around the room that his eyes perceived to be completely empty. "Hello?" he ventured hesitantly, waiting for a response.

_"Don't do that again!"_ Peter thought, projecting the words into the older man's head. _"I told you, I don't want to get caught!"_

_"Easy, pup,"_ Claude sent back. _"Almost there."_

If Nathan noticed anything, he did not show it. He merely shook his head, grabbed a small stack of papers and left the room, grumbling something under his breath.

Claude's whole body tensed as the door clicked shut and he emptied himself out into Peter. The feeling of Claude's warm seed spilling out inside of him was all Peter needed to reach his climax. He whimpered, biting his lip harder to keep from screaming Claude's name before collapsing onto the wooden surface underneath him.

The British man panted, allowing himself to slump on top of Peter's smaller frame before kissing the side of his neck. "Wasn't that fun?" he joked. "Didn't I say I would show you a good time?"

The paramedic rolled his eyes at the other man's comment just as he felt his phone begin to vibrate and chime in his pocket. He frowned, reaching down and grabbing the mobile device, only to find Nathan's name flashing on the display screen.

His skin drained itself of all its color as his fingers reluctantly hit the accept button before pressing the phone to his ear. "Hello?"

"If you and Claude are done with your bizarre sex-capade, then I want my office back!"

**Pairing:** Mohinder/Sylar, implied Peter/Mohinder, Matt/Mohinder, Eden/Mohinder  
**Rating:** Hard R  
**Prompt/Request:** Sylar/Mohinder living together, Sylar is angry at Mohinder's annoying habits (maybe Mohinder is messy and Sylar very tidy, Mohinder leaves the tops of jars, doesn't wash or just so busy with his work that he doesn't take notice of any house work) and attempts to with hold sex until Mohinder stops annoying him. However Mohinder has other ideas. Points if Mohinder teases him about other lovers (Matt thought it was cute, Peter liked cleaning up after me etc)  
**Warnings:** Slash, PWP, Humor (Sex again, so skip away if you don't want to read)

He never would have thought that someone so beautiful could be so sloppy, but he was. Mohinder Suresh was probably the biggest slob that Sylar had ever encountered. Worse than Chandra, who had had the nasty habit of leaving bags of tea sitting at the bottom of the cup too long, causing them to stick together. Worse than Elle, who had the annoying habit of plucking loose threads from fabric, or - worse - the dead hairs from her head and flicking them to the ground. Worse than Luke with his typically teenaged habit of chewing the ends of straws until they became twisted and curled into little knots.

No. Mohinder was all those things and then some. He would strip off his dirty, sweat soaked clothes and leave them in careless piles at random corners of the room, waiting for _someone_ - i.e., Sylar - to take care of them for him. He'd eat bowls of cereal, plates of food, cups of tea in front of his laptop and then leave them on the desk, stacking them up next to the uneven piles of paper that already cluttered the surface. After showering, he'd towel himself dry and then leave the towels sprawled across the closed toilet lid, without a care for the next person who would need to use it.

Sylar had confronted him about it of course - several times in fact - but Mohinder would always issue a half hearted apology, blaming his bad habits on his work and promise him that he would do his fair share in the morning. That magical morning never came and Sylar was beginning to wonder if he had made a mistake in moving in with the geneticist. He couldn't go on like this. It had to stop.

So he stopped. He stopped giving Mohinder the attention he craved until the Indian started doing what was expected.

It started quietly at first - Mohinder would glance his way, would touch his knee, would give him just a little extra attention and he'd just "happened" to not see the hidden meaning. Then it got bigger as the Indian slowly began to take notice to what was happening (although he obviously couldn't understand _why_ it was happening). Mohinder would serve him extra helpings of wine with dinner, rub his shoulders when they weren't sore, wear outfits that helped to bring out the sparkle in his eye, but Sylar refused to take notice. He wouldn't budge until Mohinder got the hint.

One day, after the dry spell had lasted one week too long, Mohinder came out and asked him straight forward what was going on, and Sylar was more than happy to spell it out for him.

"Look Mohinder," he told him, his voice flat and devoid of the faintest hint of humor or mirth, "you may be used to living in your own filth, but I can't deal with it. I enjoy having things neat and tidy, but I'm tired of cleaning up after you."

It was then that Mohinder did the one thing that Sylar hadn't expected him to do - hadn't wanted him to do - he laughed. "Is _that_ what this is about?" Mohinder chuckled. Whatever amusement he was getting out of this situation, Sylar didn't see and it left him feeling more than a little confused. "You're withholding sex from me because I won't do the dishes?"

"It's not just the dishes!" Sylar snapped. "It's the laundry and the bathroom and-" He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself before he could fly off the handle. He had worked hard to control his temper; he wouldn't let Mohinder's bad habits be his undoing. "I'm just asking for a little help, that's all."

"You make it seem like all I do is loaf around the apartment all day!" Mohinder shot back. "I do plenty. I cook, I do the shopping-"

"That's not the same as actually cleaning," he pointed out.

"Well I don't see what the big deal is," Mohinder scoffed. "Peter didn't seem to mind."

Sylar felt his eye tick at the mention of _that name_. Yet if Mohinder noticed, he made no indication of it.

"He actually thought it was quite cute," he continued. "Peter was more than happy to clean up after me. In fact, the apartment looked nearly spotless while he was here."

"Well I'm _not_ Peter," he seethed; balling his hands so tightly that he felt his finger nails bite into his palms. "And I do a damn good job of cleaning. You could practically eat off of this floor. Or at least you could if you were able see it underneath all this trash."

Mohinder chuckled at his words, taking a step closer to his partner. "Well, I suppose," he whispered, pressing his slightly shorter frame against Sylar's broad chest. "You should have seen the apartment when Matt lived here." The American shuddered as Mohinder's hot breath ghosted against his heated flesh. Mohinder knew how easily he got jealous, especially when the Indian referred to his former lovers. "I suppose you could say we were kindred spirits in that sense. He was a slob just like me. He used to leave empty pizza boxes in the bedroom."

Sylar huffed, his hands trembling at his sides, the urge to grab Mohinder and throw him against the table was overwhelming, but he had to resist. After all, his point would be completely thrown to the wayside if he didn't hold on just a bit longer.

"You're a slut," he shot back, even as he felt himself hardening under Mohinder's seductive whispers.

"Of course, then there was Eden," he purred, caressing Sylar's broad chest with his strong hands. "She truly was a wonder. And her cooking was to die for."

He growled at the geneticist's words. He remembered Eden. She was a mousy little girl, no bigger than his fist. Mohinder had talked about her quite often back when he had been Zane. The way she cooked for him, flirted with him, helped him along with his research. Somehow, it was the reminder of Eden's existence that truly set him off.

He used his telekinesis to brush aside the stacks of paper and half eaten plates of food that littered the dining room table, before grabbing Mohinder by his shoulders and throwing him against the sturdy wooden structure. "I'm not Peter," he growled, ripping the Indian's shirt open and causing the buttons to scatter across the room. "I'm not Matt." Mohinder moaned, as Sylar practically ripped his pants off. "And I am _not_ Eden."

The Indian sighed, feeling Sylar's hard length pressed against him even with the thin layer of denim acting as a barrier. "Of course you're not," Mohinder gasped, squirming under his touch. "Eden was a much better kisser."

Sylar slammed their lips together in response, telekineticly undoing his belt and sliding his pants down his hips. "You're going to clean up this mess," Sylar hissed, slipping two fingers between the Indian's lips as he turned his attention to kissing and biting his way down Mohinder's long neck. "And then you're going to do the laundry. And when you're done with that, you can give all the dishes a good scrub."

Mohinder grunted, his words muffled by Sylar's fingers, and the reformed killer smirked in triumph. "That doesn't sound like a yes to me," he teased, pulling his fingers from between Mohinder's lips. "Say yes," he coaxed, as he slipped one finger inside Mohinder's entrance. The Indian bucked his hips and groaned at the penetration, but gave no direct response. "Say it," he urged, adding another finger to the already tight fit.

"S-Sylar," Mohinder whimpered, wriggling with need and tightening his fingers against the edge of the table. "Please."

"Close," he chuckled. He was rock hard and ready to go, but he needed a direct answer first. "Say it, Mohinder. Say you'll do it."

"Yes," Mohinder gasped finally. "Yes! Anything you want. Now just please fuck me."

Sylar was practically beaming as he pulled his fingers out, replacing them with his aching length. "You're going to clean," he grunted, thrusting slowly in and out of the other man's entrance. "You're going to scrub every inch of this apartment. I want it to be spotless."

"Yes," Mohinder panted. "Yes, of course."

"And the bathroom," he continued, picking up his pace at the image of Mohinder bent over, on his hands and knees, scrubbing away all the dirt and grime caked to the bottom of the tub. "I want you to clean the tub and the sink. And the shower. Change the curtain."

"Yes, yes."

He could see his climax coming as Mohinder came with a strangled scream, calling his name and tightening his hold on his waist. He soon followed after him, grunting and clawing at the table before collapsing on top of Mohinder's sweat soaked form.

They lay there, panting and huffing as they bathed in the afterglow of their release.

"When do you want me to get started on those chores?" Mohinder asked after a few minutes.

"Later," Sylar panted, kissing the other man's chest lazily. "After round two."

**Pairing:** Gabriel/Mohinder  
**Rating:** PG  
**Prompt/Request:** AU- Gabriel and Mohinder want to get married but face persecution by religious bigots.  
**Warnings:** Domestic fluff, slight Angst (You could sort of call this a sequel to "Sweaty Palms" :P)

Gabriel sighed, flipping his cell phone open and closed anxiously as he continued to pace the length of the living room. He didn't need this. He was already stressed out enough as it was, and now his mother had to add yet another worry to his already troubled mind. And then there was Mohinder. He shuddered to think of how the Indian would react when he heard the news.

It was at that moment that Gabriel caught the familiar sound of keys jingling as his partner entered their shared apartment. His stomach tightened and his throat clenched as the geneticist walked in, a flimsy, black garment bag slung over his shoulders.

"Mohinder," Gabriel began, not knowing exactly what to say, but he was cut off by his lover's bright smile.

"Hello darling," Mohinder greeted cheerfully. He strode across the room and gave Gabriel a quick kiss to his pale cheek. The gesture usually left the watchmaker feeling warm and light, but today it just filled him with remorse. "I got my achkan," the Indian announced, indicating the bag on his shoulder. "I had to go all over town looking for just the right one, but it's perfect! I can't wait to show you."

The American swallowed past the lump quickly forming in his throat as frustrated tears threatened to spill from his eyes. This wasn't how things were supposed to go. They weren't working out like he had planned, like he had dreamed.

"Mohinder," he said again, his voice quivering with frustration. "I, uh, just got off the phone with my mom..."

The geneticist stilled, knowing that nothing good ever came out of conversations with Virginia Gray. "What's wrong?" he asked softly, his cheerful face quickly shifting into a mask of concern.

He frowned, looked down at his feet, and cleared his throat. "She, um... she said she won't be coming... to the wedding."

Gabriel didn't have to raise his eyes to know that Mohinder's face was twisting into a worried frown as he draped the garment bag on the back of a nearby chair. "Did she say why?" he asked softly.

He nodded. "She said... she said she wouldn't take part in a 'Godless union.'"

"Oh, Gabriel," Mohinder crooned, wrapping the taller man up in his secure embrace and pressing Gabriel's head against his shoulders. It was a slightly awkward position given their difference in size, but the watchmaker always felt much better when he could lay his head on Mohinder's shoulders, breath in his rich scent, and have the geneticist run his careful fingers over his hair. "I'm so sorry. Perhaps if we changed the venue-"

"No," Gabriel cut in, hating the way his voice quivered as he spoke. "No. She'd... she still wouldn't come. We're nothing but sinners in her eyes. It was stupid of me to ever think she would..."

"It's not stupid," Mohinder assured, pressing a tender kiss to his lover's cheek.

They stood like that, Mohinder gently holding him in his arms as Gabriel fought down the urge to scream and cry and break whatever he could get his hands on. "I don't think I can do this," Gabriel confessed. "I... I don't think I can marry you... not if my mother disapproves."

He felt the Indian stiffen, his whole body going ridged with shock, but he never released him from his grasps. "You want to call off the wedding?" he asked skeptically. "Gabriel... we've already sent out the invitations and... my family's flying in from India!"

"Well, we'll uninvite everyone," Gabriel sniffed, feeling the tears pouring from his eyes against his will. He took in a slow, quivering breath as he turned his head to bury his face against Mohinder's shirt, causing his glasses to press flat against his face, pinching the bridge of his nose and soaking the lenses with tears. "The wedding's still a month away, I'm sure they... they won't be too mad."

"Gabriel," Mohinder sighed, pulling the other man away so they could meet each other's gaze. "You don't really want to do this."

"Yes I do," he half sobbed, keeping his eyes trained on the ground. "You don't understand. You don't understand what it feels like to know that your own mother is disappointed in you, ashamed of you, because you're in love with a man. In her eyes, I m going against God, turning my back on everything she's taught me."

Mohinder said nothing, he merely stood there, brushing his slim fingers through Gabriel's already well groomed black hair with a thoughtful look on his face. "Gabriel," he began again, cupping the tall American's face in his hands, forcing him to look him in the eyes. "When we first started dating, my father offered me five thousand dollars to break up with you."

Gabriel felt his eyes widen at the announcement. "_Chandra_ did that?"

"He did," Mohinder confirmed. "And when I told him we were engaged, he wrote me a check for fifty thousand dollars in hopes of getting me to call off the wedding."

"Did you take it?"

"Of course not!"

The watchmaker frowned, completely flabbergasted by this declaration. "Chandra hates me?"

"Well, he doesn't so much hate _you_ as the idea of you, or us rather," Mohinder explained. "You're American, white, and worst of all a _man_. Us being married would be humiliating for him."

Gabriel's head was swimming as he thought of all the times he had been with Chandra, eaten dinner with him, made small talk with him, helped the older Suresh with his research. It was hard to believe that every smile, every laugh, every fond pat on the shoulder had been fake. "I can't believe he really hates me."

"The _point_ is," Mohinder went on, a hint of irritation in his voice, "that I don't care. It doesn't matter what Chandra thinks of you and it doesn't really matter what Virginia thinks of me. We love each other. And if our parents can't accept that, then it's their problem."

Gabriel sighed even as a small smile tugged at his lips. He wrapped his arms around Mohinder's slim waist and gave him a deep kiss on the lips. "I wouldn't like you as much if you were a woman anyway," he teased. "Although you would be just as pretty."


	6. 4 Mylar Shorts

**Pairing:** Mohinder/Sylar**  
Raiting:** PG**  
****Prompt/Request:** Mohinder is pregnant with Sylar's baby. Sylar completely loves it.  
**Warning:** Mpreg, Slash, AU, Fluff

Sylar's ears perked up when he heard the sound. It was muffled, and for a moment he thought it was nothing, but then the sound came again - louder, angrier. He frowned, cocking his head in concentration, wishing that he still had his enhanced hearing as the sound came again, this time, more rapid. It was at that moment that he headed toward the source, realizing that it was coming from the bathroom.

When he tried the door, he was only mildly surprised to find that it was locked. Sylar knew that he could have just forced the door open using his telekinesis, but he also knew that it would upset the man on the other side. He was trying, they both were (well, Sylar more so than Mohinder), to make this complicated situation easier and using his abilities to force his entry would only serve to take the progress they had made and set it several paces back.

He knocked softly, waiting for the Indian to answer, but no response came. "Mohinder?" he began, pressing his ear against the wooden frame. "Are you okay?"

"Go away!" the geneticist snapped. His voice was tight, choked, and if Sylar didn't know any better he would have said that Mohinder was crying, but that was unlikely. Mohinder never cried. Not even now.

"I heard a noise," he went on, ignoring Mohinder's bitter tone.

"I..." Mohinder began, but his words quickly faded away as if he had decided that whatever he was about to say was too embarrassing to share. "Please, just go away."

The American sighed, pressing his hand flat against the door. "I'm coming in," he warned. Reaching out with his ability, he twisted and forced the locks open with his mind before calmly entering the bathroom.

He saw Mohinder sitting on the floor, his back pressed flat against the far wall, his eyes red and puffy with twin streaks of tears staining his cheeks. The Indian took in several deep breaths, roughly wiping away any trace of tears, but refused to meet Sylar's gaze. "I told you to go away," Mohinder reminded him, his voice tight and wavering slightly.

"I know," Sylar shrugged, calmly striding over to the other man. "What happened?"

Mohinder shook his head, but said nothing.

"Come on, tell me," he pushed, crouching down beside Mohinder's miserable form.

"It's so stupid," Mohinder sniffed, a tear slipping out from the corner of his eye, but the geneticist instantly brushed it away.

"It's not stupid if it's making you cry," Sylar said. Mohinder didn't want to admit that he was changing, that this situation was affecting him on more than just a physical level, but Sylar knew the Indian was becoming more sensitive, more emotional each day. "Tell me, I won't judge."

The geneticist took another deep breath, bowing his head solemnly before finally working up the nerve to whisper, "My pants won't close."

Sylar had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. It was silly and if Mohinder's stomach hadn't been protruding out to such great lengths because of the child - _their child_ - that he was carrying, Sylar probably would have teased him about crying over something so small. Yet he couldn't. To do such a thing, to ridicule the man who was giving up his body to offer Sylar the greatest gift imaginable was an act that was beneath even him.

"Well, we'll just have to get you another pair," Sylar offered, leaning over to press a reassuring kiss to Mohinder's cheek, but the Indian wouldn't have it. He shoved him away, frowning at the other man's lack of sympathy.

"You don't get it," he barked miserably. "I _just_ bought these pants! They can't be too small already! I couldn't have gained that much weight so quickly!"

Sylar stared, baffled by the other man's response. He didn't know what to say. Mohinder should have known better than anyone that this was _supposed_ to happen, that in his condition it was only natural for him to gain weight in order to keep their baby healthy and happy. The serial killer opened his mouth to say something, but Mohinder quickly cut him off.

"This is ridiculous," Mohinder said, shifting uncomfortably against the harsh tile. "I'm ridiculous! How can you stand being near me?"

"Because I love you," Sylar told him, grabbing the other man's slightly swollen hand in his. A month ago his fingers had started to inflate and they had to remove the silver ring that Mohinder usually wore around his thumb out of fear that it would cut off his circulation. Mohinder had broken down then as well, and Sylar had comforted him to the best of his abilities, but it still ate away at him. "And you're beautiful."

"I am _not_ beautiful!" Mohinder practically howled, slapping Sylar's hand away from him, before hissing in pain and clutching his own wrist. After entering the final trimester, Mohinder had come down with a bad case of carpal tunnel syndrome in his right hand. It made the simplest tasks next to impossible and sleep nearly unobtainable as waves of pain periodically shot through his limb. It was then that Mohinder had decided that he was living through "the worst pregnancy ever" and Sylar found it hard to disagree with him. "I'm a mess! I'm too big to walk without waddling and my hands and feet have ballooned to twice their normal size. This was all a mistake. I never should have let you talk me into doing this."

"I know," Sylar sighed, rubbing the smaller man's shoulder tenderly. "I should have been the one to go through this, but I love you so much for doing it. You're so strong and so brave and so beautiful. Yes, you _are_ beautiful," Sylar said firmly, cutting off Mohinder's attempt at protesting. "Even if you are a mess, you're a beautiful mess."

"How?" he huffed, pouted really, as Sylar pulled him closer forcing the smaller man to rest his head on his shoulder. "How can you think that?"

"Because of this," he explained, rubbing the top of the Indian's expanding middle. "You're so beautiful like this; big and pregnant and all mine. Sometimes I wish I could keep you like this forever."

"Well you're the only one," Mohinder laughed bitterly, but Sylar was thankful that the other man did not pull away. "I can't wait to have our baby out of me and my body back to normal."

Sylar smiled, pressing a tender kiss to the bridge of Mohinder's nose. "I know," he murmured, "and I'll keep reminding you how beautiful you are until then."

**Pairing:** Mohinder/Sylar, vaguely implied Mohinder/Mira**  
Rating:** PG  
**Prompt/Request:** Sylar tries to convince Mohinder that he's good.  
**Warning:** Slash, Humor, AU, Spoilers for Season 4**  
Author's Note:** A while back, someone suggested I should expand this story into something longer. I make no promises, but the idea is tempting :)

Mohinder groaned when he felt something cool and wet press against the side of his heated skin. His eyes were clouded and his mind was scrambled. His body felt numb and unresponsive as he continued to try to force his limbs to come back to life.

"Shhh..." he heard a voice whisper to him - his ears didn't seem to be working well either since he was barely able to hear the words over the churning in his head - as a gentle hand caressed his arm in a reassuring manner. "It's okay. You're okay. Just... just stay still."

"Where...?" he began, but his throat felt too soar, too dry to properly push out any words.

"Don't speak," the person above him instructed. He felt an arm slide under him, wrap itself around his shoulder and push him into a sitting position. "Drink this," the voice instructed as a glass was gently pressed to his lips.

He drank deeply, wondering just how long it had been since he had actually had any water as he nearly finishing the entire glass before the cup was pulled away. He coughed, his numb fingers barely able to wipe the excess water from his lips as the geneticist continued to blink away the fog that shielded his eyes. "I was..." he began slowly, trying to piece things together. "I was in a hospital... was I sick?"

"No," the stranger assured him, draping the moist cloth over Mohinder's eyes - and the Indian wasn't sure if it was for his own comfort or an attempt to obscure his vision further. "You were in a mental institution in Florida."

He remembered... vaguely... Strange men grabbing him, pushing him down, injecting him every night, feeding him pills every morning... It sounded like a nightmare, it should have been a nightmare, but it was all real. "Hiro Nakamura," he said slowly, thoughtfully. "He put me in there."

"Nakamura?" Hands tightened around him, his body was pressed closer to a warm, sturdy frame. "He's so dead."

It was only then that he was able to place the voice, the grip, the fury that was radiating off of the other man. The only explanation for his sudden surge of energy was that he was hit by an unexpected burst of adrenaline as he all but ripped the cloth off of his eyes and pushed himself away from the man's grasp. "Sylar!" he practically yelped, scrambling away, only to find himself pinned back down to the bed he had been resting on. "What... what's going on?"

"Stay calm," Sylar ordered; his hand spread open as he used his telekinesis to press Mohinder flat against the soft mattress. "You need your rest. The drugs are still in your system, but you should be better soon."

The Indian could practically feel his heart beating in his toes as he struggled under the invisible restraints. "You broke me out of the asylum?" Mohinder concluded weakly. It was the only logical explanation for their current situation and yet... it didn't really seem all that logical. Suddenly he missed the drug induced haze of the mental hospital. At least then, as real as his nightmare's felt, they couldn't harm him. "Why? To kill me?"

Sylar clucked his tongue, rolling his eyes at Mohinder's words. "Now really Suresh, why would I waste my time breaking you out just to kill you?"

"Well... why else would I be here?" he stammered, suddenly feeling very weak. The room was spinning, his vision was blurring, and if Sylar weren't there he probably would have taken his advice and just relaxed. "Why else would you bring me here? There's no more list... there hasn't been for some time and I haven't done _anything_ in the way of researching Specials since I left America... after your funeral as it were... But you're not dead."

"Nope, I'm not," he said calmly, reaching out to pinch Mohinder's arm as if to prove that he were very much alive.

"Then who... or what...?"

"Some shape shifter," Sylar shrugged indifferently. "It doesn't matter. I'm over it."

Mohinder frowned, cocking his head in confusion. Over it? Sylar didn't just get "over" things. He held grudges, he swore revenge, he _got_ revenge... Something was wrong. "I don't feel well," Mohinder moaned.

Suddenly the invisible force that had been holding him down was removed, allowing the Indian to sit up, slowly, as the world continued to spin and tip and turn and blur and... he suddenly felt as if he were going to be sick. The instant he felt the bile spring into his throat, Sylar forced a trash bin into his lap. Mohinder didn t need any more direction than that as he expelled the contents of his stomach into the waste basket.

"I told you to stay calm," Sylar grumbled, chided really, as he rubbed soothing circles into Mohinder's back and used his telekinesis to lift the waste basket out of Mohinder's lap and to the other side of the room. "How are you feeling? Better? Do you want me to get you more water?"

Mohinder groaned, shuddered, and it wasn't from the sickening taste clinging to his tongue. It was from the fact that Sylar was practically cooing in his ears. "What I want is to know why the hell I'm here."

"Because I want you to be here," Sylar answered instantly. Without warning the man pressed a quick kiss to Mohinder's temple. The Indian jumped, his eyes widening as he gazed at Sylar's calm, sincere face. "I missed you."

His brain felt fried, melted, and utterly destroyed. He'd just spent eight weeks being drugged into a stupor at what was probably the shoddiest mental institute that a supposed friend could trap him in. This was the absolute last thing that he needed. "What the hell..." he began slowly, but Sylar cut him off.

"Not long ago, someone told me that I was probably going to die alone if I kept living this way," he explained quietly. "I may be a serial killing sociopath, but I'm not devoid of all emotion. I get lonely... I am lonely... So I decided that I want to be good. I'm going to try to be good and I want you to help me."

"Help you?" Mohinder repeated.

"You're the only person that ever really liked me," he confessed, a slight smile playing at the corners of his lips.

"I never liked you!"

"You liked Zane."

"That wasn't _you_."

"Of course it was me," Sylar scoffed. "Even if I had had the time to memorize the real Zane Taylor's entire life history and personality, I wouldn't have been able to retain it since I missed out on the chance to obtain enhanced memory from that waitress." Mohinder flinched as Sylar reached out and grasped his hand, giving it an affectionate squeeze. "Those conversations we had, the jokes you laughed at, the kisses we shared... that was me."

Mohinder shuddered. He had spent months trying to bury that whole experience and now Sylar was forcing him to dig it up again. "So what exactly am I supposed to do?" he asked wearily.

"Just be your usual pleasant self and let me take care of you," the serial killer murmured, reaching out to caress Mohinder's stubble covered cheek.

"And then just sit back and be happy as you kill innocent people?" he shot back, flinching away from the serial killer's touch. "I don't think so."

Sylar frowned thoughtfully. "I don't have to kill people," he said slowly, reluctantly, and Mohinder felt his ears sincerely perk up at the statement. "I suppose I could still collect abilities without killing. I have empathy, ya know. After all, I want to be good... good people don't kill... and you'd like me if I were good, right?"

The geneticist frowned, weighing his options carefully. On the one hand, if he went along with this, he'd be living with the man who murdered his father and wouldn't be able to see Mira or his family again. On the other hand, by playing along with Sylar's most likely temporary semi-sanity he could save countless lives...

"My head hurts," he said finally. "Do you think you could get me some more water and an aspirin dear?"

Sylar's face was practically glowing as he leaned over and pressed their lips together, obviously not minding the horrible taste of Mohinder's mouth. "Anything you want," Sylar all but purred, leaning in for another quick kiss before leaving the room in search of aspirin.

Mohinder sighed, rubbing his temples. If he could survive a mental institute, he could survive this.

**Pairing:** Mohinder/Sylar**  
Rating:** PG  
**Prompt/Request:** Mohinder is getting really sick of Sylar's long greasy hair, so he cuts it for him. And then they have sex :) ((Didn't quite go through with the sex part :-/))  
**Warning:** Slash, Humor

"Do we really have to do this?"

"Yes!" Mohinder half shouted, half laughed as he pulled out a chair and motioned for Sylar to have a seat.

"My hair is just fine," Sylar argued even as he sat down in the offered chair. "I don t need a haircut."

Mohinder gave out a sharp sarcastic laugh as he grabbed a towel and draped it over Sylar's broad shoulders. The serial killer could already feel the sweat pouring down his back and his heart beating in his hands at the Indian's casual demeanor. "You're not the one that has to look at that greasy mess all day," Mohinder said bitterly. "Or touch it! If you re not going to take proper care of your hair, then you'll simply have to pay the price."

"Well, can I at least go to a real barber?" he asked, mindful to keep his voice level as Mohinder produced a pair of scissors and a comb.

"What? You don't trust me? Even if my hand somehow slips and, say, cuts your ear off, it'll grow back."

Sylar frowned. It wasn't an injury he was worried about. Mohinder was a geneticist, not a stylist. If the man butchered his hair - and Sylar had no doubt that the Indian would just to get back at him for something he had done in the past - then Sylar would have to be the one to walk around with the mess on his head. "Have you ever even cut hair before?"

"Don't worry about it," Mohinder said simply, and that only served to make the serial killer panic even more. "Just remember: hair grows."

Sylar nodded, taking in a deep quivering breath and letting it out slowly. "Okay," he breathed, tightening his hands against the sides of the chair. "I'm ready."

"This isn't an execution!" Mohinder snapped, swatting the man's shoulder sharply. "Now stop being a baby and just relax. And trust me."

He did trust Mohinder - he trusted the man to be a complete pain in the ass, to nag at him for even the slightest grievance, to point out all his faults, to have breakfast ready for him in the morning and a warm spot in bed at night - but somehow, he couldn't truly bring himself to trust Mohinder not to make him look like a fool.

Sylar felt every muscle in his body tense as he watched Mohinder slowly reach for the scissors. He bit his tongue and screwed his eyes shut, suddenly unable to watch the massacre. _Hair grows. Hair grows,_ he chanted over and over in his mind, but the mantra quickly faded into nothing when he felt Mohinder's slim fingers running over his scalp. He had to fight to hold back the moan as one of Mohinder's fingers accidentally brushed past the tip of his ear.

"Relax," Mohinder whispered, leaning close enough that Sylar could practically smell him. "Just relax."

He was relaxed, maybe too relaxed, and completely focused on the warmth of the other man's hands. The serial killer flinched slightly when he heard the first _snip_, but as the metal razor traced over the back of his scalp and the teeth of the comb messaged his skin, he suddenly found himself indifferent to the noise. After a while, Mohinder started to hum along with his work, and Sylar was completely lost in the moment. Suddenly he was eager for the experience to be over for entirely different reasons.

"Finished," the geneticist announced, and Sylar had to admit that he was a bit surprised.

"Already?"

"I told you it was just a trim," Mohinder reminded him before handing the taller man a hand mirror. "Here. Take a look."

The first thing that caught Sylar's eye was the fact that he wasn't completely bald. No, there was still more than enough hair attached to his head, perhaps the same length that he had had back when he was traveling through Mexico and infected with the virus. He ran a hand over his hair, noticing that a few strands stuck to his palm, but not enough to be alarmed over. He turned his head to the left then right. Everything seemed to be even and neat.

"Not bad," he muttered.

"Not bad?" Mohinder repeated, indignation clear in his voice as he practically ripped the towel off of his shoulders. "Selfish brat."

Sylar chuckled, placing the mirror down on a nearby table. "I'm sorry, I meant that it's 'extraordinary.'"

Mohinder frowned, pinning the man with a dull look. "Don't be smart," he warned tersely. His frown deepened as he ran a hand through the other man's hair, causing Sylar to shudder slightly at the touch. "It may be shorter, but it's still greasy. You're going to have to wash it."

A wolfish smile spread across the American's pale features as he grabbed the Indian by the wrist and began dragging him towards the back of the apartment. "Well, since you did such a good job cutting it, why don't you wash it for me too?"

"Must I?" Mohinder asked dramatically, but Sylar could see the playful gleam in his eye as they headed towards the bathroom.

**Pairing:** Mohinder/Sylar, implied Matt/Mohinder  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Prompt/Request:** If someone writes me a Drunk!Mylar fic that involves a porny game of truth or dare, I will love you forever and ever. :D  
**Warning:** Slash, Humor, Language, Kinda Cracky

Mohinder grimaced as the liquid burned down his throat. He had never been very good with alcohol and six drinks in he still wasn't doing much better unlike the man sitting across from him.

"Truth or dare?" Sylar asked, pouring another shot into Mohinder's glass.

The geneticist scowled. Damn Sylar and his regenerative abilities. He should have known better than to play this game with him, but there really wasn't much else for them to do. Mohinder may have the upper hand in strength, but Sylar could heal. He could spend all day and all night punching the man's face black and blue, but it wouldn't do much good (two hours and a trashed lab proved that point). That's when Sylar pulled out the bottle and the shot glasses and Mohinder was too damn tired to say no.

"Truth," he sighed. The rules were simple; two shots for a truth and one shot for a dare. Since there was no more list to worry over, Mohinder knew the best option for him would be to constantly reply with truth. Dare would undoubtedly lead Sylar to request for him to perform some lude act on him.

Sylar rolled his eyes in annoyance as he passed the Indian his shot glass. He downed the shots quickly, one after the other, all the while making the same grimace and shuddering as they burned down his throat. That was the fourth time Mohinder had chosen truth and the serial killer was starting to get testy. There were only so many questions he could ask. "Did you ever fuck Parkmen?"

Mohinder coughed and sputtered at the bluntness of his question. "Oh God!" he gasped. "How is that any of your business?"

"Truth or dare, Mohinder," Sylar stated flatly. "Answer the question."

The geneticist groaned, shifting himself on the cold tiled floor. "Once."

Sylar's jaw clenched and his eyes darkened at the other man's response.

"I said 'once!'" Mohinder pointed out, his drunk mind too slow to understand that once was just one time too many for Sylar's taste.

"Did you like it?" he ground out, pouring another shot and Mohinder wasn't sure who it was for. "Did you want more? Was it his idea or yours?"

"That's three more questions than you're allowed."

"Slut."

"What!"

"You heard me," Sylar muttered, taking the shot and grimacing only momentarily. Mohinder had a feeling that the serial killer suddenly wished that he could get drunk if only to avoid remembering this conversation in the morning.

"Fine, truth or dare?"

"Truth," he said flatly, already through his second shot and pouring himself another. He was trying and failing to intoxicate himself. It was a sad sight.

"Why the hell do you care so much?"

Sylar's eyes snapped on him, his hand clenching down on the bottle so tightly that Mohinder thought for certain that it was going to shatter in his hands. "I'll show you why," he seethed, tossing the shot and glass aside and pouncing on the startled scientist.


	7. What Ifs Mylar

**Pairing**: Mohinder/Sylar  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Prompt/Request**: What if Mohinder had secret Mpreg powers and had gotten pregnant after sleeping with 'Zane' on the roadtrip?  
**Warnings**: Slash, Mpreg, AU

He kept his head down low and his eyes squeezed shut as he heard the door squeak open. Mohinder hoped that the position gave off the appearance that he was hard at work, too involved with his research to chat, but he knew better. Whoever it was wouldn't be turned away. None of the others would be content to just let him be.

After the Company had recaptured Sylar - taken him in and made him an "agent" under the ridiculous pretense that he was Angela Petrelli's long lost son - every Tom, Dick, and Harry had been piling in to give Mohinder their condolences. He hated it. He was sick of it. If he got one more gentle pat on the back or a sympathetic "I know this must be hard on you" then he was going to pull his hair out. The geneticist hated being pitied, hated that everyone's heart suddenly went out to him, even if this was the most kindness he had been given since joining the Company (hell, since coming to New York).

He understood where they were all coming from, though. They had heard the story - fractured rumors, but it was still the same story at its core - and at first, before Sylar had shown up, it had been the running punchline all around the water cooler. Now that Sylar was here and Mohinder was forced to share space with him, it didn't seem so funny anymore, and suddenly anyone who had so much as cracked a smile had a guilty conscious to make peace with.

After all, it was hard to be in the same building as the man who killed your father; it was even harder when said man was also the father of your unborn child.

The thought still made him cringe with disgust at his own actions. Yes, he hadn't known who Sylar was at the time. Yes, he and "Zane" had bonded quickly, wonderfully so. Yes after seeing Dale Smither's body he was more than a little shaken up and in need of some comforting, but what he had done was reckless, stupid, and had cost him more than he would have ever imagined.

It was only after Sylar was believed to be dead that Mohinder started to see the signs. It was less than a few weeks after Kirby Plaza that he started to get sick, tired, and weak from nothing at all. Thank God that when he went to the doctor, Matt was out in the waiting room. The telepath was easily able to convince the hospital staff that the results weren't what they thought, that it was all just an error. But Mohinder would still have to live with the evidence of his betrayal growing within him.

The sound of a ceramic cup clinking against the polished surface of his desk drew Mohinder out of his musings. He turned, just in time to see pale fingers pull away from the mug's green handle and he knew, he _knew_ who was next to him.

Mohinder didn't give the man the satisfaction of looking at him, of fully acknowledging his presence, because he craved attention. He merely kept his eyes trained on the computer monitor, punching in random keys and clicking his mouse with more force than necessary.

"I know you don't want to see me right now," Sylar began, not taking the hint, "but we have to talk about this."

"There's nothing to discuss," Mohinder answered tightly, his eyes never straying from the screen.

"Of course there is. You're..." There was a pause, because the word "pregnant" was too awkward to say. It was still too awkward for Mohinder to say. "You're having my baby."

"No."

He wasn't looking at him, but the Indian knew that the serial killer was frowning, cocking his head in confusion as he tried to determine whether Mohinder had said what he had thought. "No?"

"No!" He slammed his hands down on his keys - frustrated and tired and not at all ready to have this conversation - and spun around to face the other man. Sylar wasn't at all startled, just irritated it seemed. "This isn't your baby."

Sylar huffed, rolling his eyes at the comment. "Come on Mohinder, don't give me that. Are you seriously going to try to tell me it's not mine when the time matches up perfectly? When you're obviously avoiding me for this exact reason? Are you going to tell me it's Petrelli's or that cop boyfriend of yours?"

"It's not your baby!" Mohinder barked, standing up quickly. His desk chair scattered away from the momentum and for a moment, Mohinder felt a bit dizzy (he couldn't make sudden movements in his condition, not with how big he had gotten in just five short months), but he ignored it. It had been so easy to accept his condition, to come to terms with his impending fatherhood when Sylar wasn't around. Knowing that Sylar was dead had made him feel as if this baby wasn't a punishment, but a gift. Now that the serial killer was back in his life all this child would do was tie them together. Mohinder wouldn't let that happen. He didn't deserve it and neither did his baby. "It's _my_ baby. _My_ child and I don't want you anywhere near him or me."

The serial killer's jaw tightened, his hands clenched at his sides, but he never so much as flinched. "I've changed," Sylar told him, firmly. "I'm different now. I'm _trying_ to be a better man."

"A few weeks ago, you held me at gun point," Mohinder snapped.

"That was different! I didn't even know-"

"Whether you knew or not doesn't matter! It doesn't change the fact that you held a ten year old girl hostage! You can say you're different, but it doesn't change the past. It doesn't erase all the bad you've done. You _don't_ get the luxury of a clean slate just because you have a fancy suit and a new name."

Sylar sighed, his whole demeanor softening as he reached out to hold Mohinder's hand, but the Indian pulled it away before they could touch. "I know I've hurt you, I've done horrible things to you, and I'm sorry that you're upset, but..." He paused taking a step closer which caused Mohinder to take a step back. His hip collided with his desk, the cup shook, drops of tea splattering along the table, and suddenly Sylar was just too close. "... I don't think I could change anything if it would mean I never got to meet you... if it erased _this_ from happening."

His face flushed as Sylar placed his large hand on the swell in his stomach. The touch burned him and Mohinder couldn't help shoving the man away. "That's a _horrible_ thing to say! You killed so many, my father, this baby's _grandfather_, included, and you're not sorry? You're not sorry because it leads to you being happy?"

The American frowned, upset that his "kind words" were being twisted around and used against him. "Well I'm not exactly happy right now," he groused.

"Well good, because I'm miserable!" His eyes stung as frustrated tears welled up, longing to burn their way across his cheeks. Damn this pregnancy for making him so hormonal. "You don't know what it's like, having to go through this, having to explain to other people what's happening to me when... when I don't even understand myself." He turned away, bowing his head, because he was going to cry and he couldn't let Sylar see it. "It was so much easier when you weren't here. I... I didn't have to hate myself. I didn't have to worry that my baby would ever know you. You don't know how I feel."

Sylar's large hand was on his cheek, his pale fingers brushing away his tears, and Mohinder hated himself more than ever as he allowed the serial killer to pull him into a hug. "I don't know how you feel," he murmured. "But I do know how it feels to be abandoned, to be lost, and not know who you are. I don't want that for our baby. I don't want him to grow up not knowing who he is... I don't want him to turn out like _me_."

Those words made Mohinder sick, so sick that he had to close his eyes, burring his face into Sylar's chest as his fingers gripped the man's arm desperately. "I don't want that either."

**Pairing**: Mohinder/Sylar  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Prompt/Request:** What if, during "The Wall," Mohinder has been trapped in Sylar's head instead of Peter?  
**Warnings**: Slash, AU, Humor, Spoilers for Vol 5

He didn't know why he was doing this. It was a terrible idea from the start. Using Sylar to save a young woman's life sounded like a plan that would undoubtedly turn around and bite them all in the ass. Yet Peter had insisted that not only would it work, but Mohinder would have to be the one to do the convincing. He didn't tell him why, just that he had a "feeling." It was unfortunate that Mohinder, like so many others, found it nearly impossible to resist Peter. Otherwise he would have told the young man just where to shove his "feeling" and gotten on that plane back to India.

Matt had been reluctant - more so than Mohinder - to send him in, but with some convincing he managed it, and the Indian really wished he hadn't.

The moment he came across Sylar in this abandoned world of his own making, Mohinder felt his dread nearly double. He hadn't seen the man in months, and Mohinder had to remind himself that he wasn't really seeing him now. The figure in front of him was merely a mental projection of himself and the real Sylar was a drooling vegetable in the Parkmans' basement. Still, seeing the serial killer in front of him, fully animated and clearly alive reminded him of how pleasant the past few months in which they had all thought him dead had been.

Well, except for those two months that he had spent in a mental institution. Those still made him want to punch someone.

It was only then that Mohinder truly noticed the way the serial killer was staring at him. There was a dopey, half smile on his face, as if he weren't used to making the gesture anymore, and a hungry gleam in his brown eyes akin to that of a starving dog that had caught a glimpse of a steak. The look was so intense that Mohinder actually found himself taking a nervous step back. Not that it did any good. Sylar was at his side in an instant and that look was all Mohinder could focus on.

"Mohinder," the American breathed, his eyes running up and down the Indian's body.

"S-Sylar?" he stammered, because the man's behavior was throwing him off.

His smile widened and suddenly Mohinder found himself in a fierce hug. "I can't believe it," he murmured. Sylar buried his face into his hair, taking deep, greedy breaths. "Oh, you smell just like the real Mohinder."

"_What_?" he yelped, shoving at the larger man's chest, but apparently he didn't have his abilities here and Sylar's hold was too strong. "Sylar, I-!"

Mohinder was silenced as Sylar bent down and slammed their lips together. He couldn't take it, his mind was reeling, and he finally managed to break free of the embrace and punch Sylar square in the jaw.

That didn't seem to faze him. The man was still smirking as he cupped his injured jaw in his hand. "You're moody like him, too," he grinned. His demeanor turned serious, thoughtful as he slowly ran the tips of his fingers down Mohinder's chest. The touch was so intense that Mohinder thought for sure it would be enough to burn his clothes off. "It's been so long since I've seen someone... anyone."

"It's been only a few hours!" Mohinder snapped.

"More like two years," he said, a bitter laugh coloring his words. "And seeing you..." His eyes darkened and Mohinder was certain that there were only wicked thoughts running through his mind. "I want to rip your clothes off right here and now," he breathed and Mohinder shuddered. "But I won't... Not yet. We have to do this right."

Sylar grabbed him and threw him over his shoulder. For a moment, Mohinder was too stunned to protest, but as his mind slowly began to comprehend what was happening, he started to panic. "Sylar! Stop!" he shouted, his stomach twisting with dread as Sylar carried him towards what he assumed was an abandoned building (they were _all_ abandoned buildings). "I'm not a hallucination! I'm the _real_ Mohinder."

Sylar didn't listen, he never listened, and he didn't stop until he was throwing Mohinder down on an old, beaten up mattress. If this was the serial killer's idea of doing things "right" then Mohinder cringed at the idea of doing it "wrong."

Sylar was on him in the blink of an eye, pawing him, placing burning hot kisses along his jaw and it was all too much.

"Listen to me," Mohinder breathed, horrified to feel himself responding to the other man's touch, even as he struggled to push him away. "Sylar! St-stop! I... I don't want to do this."

He hummed, running his nose along the smaller man's long neck. "That's right," he said, practically purring the words. "Fight me, struggle, call me a parasite."

This wasn't working. Sylar wasn't listening and if he didn't find a way to get the man to stop, then Mohinder was going to do something he would undoubtedly regret (although possibly enjoy). It was then that an idea hit him like a bolt of lightning to his brain. He saw his way out, but he would have to act fast. "When... when I was fifteen, my father taught me how to drive," he began.

The sudden shift in subject was enough to make Sylar still, pulling away and pinning him with a curious look.

Mohinder continued, not wanting to lose this opportunity. "I was... I was so excited, proud of myself. The day after I got my license, I went for a drive by myself... I hit a dog... A small one, just a few months old... It died. I was so upset that I didn't get behind the wheel of a car again for two years."

Sylar frowned, leaning back and studying the other man curiously. He looked lost, taken aback by the strange story. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you didn't know," he told him, relieved (and a tiny bit disappointed) that they were finally getting somewhere. "I've never told anyone this, not even 'Zane Taylor.' If I was an illusion, if I wasn't real, why would I tell you something you don't know? I would just tell you the things you already knew or things you wanted to hear."

"Oh."

Mohinder frowned, waiting for any other response, but none came. Sylar merely sat there, disappointment painfully obvious on his features as he tried to figure things out.

"So... you're real?"

Mohinder nodded.

Another pause.

"Are we gonna have sex?"

The geneticist huffed, throwing the other man off the bed. He landed on the floor with a thump, crumpling into a pile of tangled limbs.


	8. What Ifs  Mixed bag

**Author's Note:** Another set of "What if" prompts, but unlike the last ones, these are a mixed bag filled with a bunch of things I usually don't do.

**Pairing:** Peter/Hesam (if you squint)  
**Rating:** PG  
**Prompt/Request:** What if Hesam ended up being much more important to the storyline and became the Ando to Peter's Hiro?  
**Warnings:** Drabble, AU, Very Mild Vol 5 Spoiler

"I can't believe I let you talk me into this stuff."

Peter frowned, turning to stare at him curiously. "I didn't talk you into anything. You just came along."

Hesam sighed. He knew better. Peter may have thought he hadn't done anything, but he had, he just hadn't used words. He didn't need to. One flash of those wide brown eyes sparkling with a glimmer of confidence and a crooked "Don't worry, I can handle this" smile and Hesam was hooked, pulled in without much of a fight.

He should really hate Peter Petrelli. They were opposites in a way. Peter always went above and beyond, did things he didn't have to, things that nobody asked him to, but still beat himself up over when they fell apart. Hesam on the other hand was just content to take the job at face value, because that was the safe way to do things. You find people, patch them up, take them to the hospital, and then go back out there and find some more. Sometimes they make it, sometimes they don't, but it's a job and it happens. Put too much thought into it, get too invested with the people you try to save, and it can drive you nuts.

When they had met - only a few months ago, but it seemed like a lifetime - Hesam had tried to explain that to Peter, tried to teach him his method, show him the ropes, but the kid wasn't looking for a mentor. He had his own philosophy, one that would undoubtedly make him sick or, worse, get him killed, but it was his none the less.

And somehow it was starting to become Hesam's. That was the only reason why he was sitting in this car, hunting down a body snatching, super powered serial killer and a disappearing carnival. At least, that's what he thought he was doing. He wasn't too sure. He couldn't keep up with all the twists and turns.

"Hey Peter, this compass isn't working," he griped, shaking the busted little object in his hand.

Peter laughed, gently prying it from between his fingers. "Yeah, well, you gotta be 'special' for it to work."

Hesam frowned at that, watching as the little arrow began to spin, coming to life in the palm of Peter's hand. He knew what Peter meant by "special" - he meant empowered with abilities that no one should ever posses - he just wished the younger man had phrased it differently. Hesam had thought that, by now, he would have been special too.

* * *

**Pairing:** Matt/Mohinder  
**Rating:** G  
**Prompt/Request:** What if Mohinder was Matty's 'mother'?  
**Warnings:** Drabble, Slash, Mpreg, Fluff, AU

Matt frowned, his nose wrinkling at the putrid smell that the adorable little creature was producing. "Oh boy," he said, resisting the urge to gag from the stench. "Looks like somebody needs a new diaper."

The baby gurgled, giggling innocently as he shoved his chubby little hand into his mouth. Matt just couldn't stay mad at him, not when little Matty's eyes were twinkling like that, the same way Mohinder's eyes always twinkled whenever he was happy.

Life was funny, strange really, because never in a million years would Matt have envisioned his life turning out like this.

For as long as he could remember, he had wanted a family, a home of his own, and a career that he could be proud of. It was probably because his own childhood had been so crummy that his dreams were so conventional. His dad was... his dad. A shiftless lowlife, with a mean streak and a short temper. The day Maury Parkman walked out on him and his mother was the day Matt started to dream. He dreamed of doing better, of being better, even if he didn't really have much to live up to.

Then he met Mohinder and everything just clicked together. Never would Matt have imagined himself falling for a man, but the geneticist was irresistible. Mohinder was brilliant, beautiful, and supportive. He never judged Matt for his short comings. He saw his insecurities and flaws, and he helped Matt to overcome them and live up to his potential. Sure, Mohinder wasn't perfect. He could be a bit scattered brained himself at times, but Matt was more than happy to pick up the slack for him, to take care of him the way the Indian took care of Matt. They were such a perfect pair that asking the geneticist to marry him made perfect sense.

To this day, it still took him by surprise that the other man had actually said yes. Yet the biggest surprise of all came when Mohinder told him that he was actually having his baby. Matt didn't get how it had happened, no matter how many times the geneticist explained it, but he was just thankful. He was thankful to have this little bundle, this perfect blend of the two of them, even if the baby was more Mohinder than him. Maybe that was for the best.

Wipes, powder, diapers - cloth diapers because they were better for the environment - and pins - always so careful with the pins because the idea of pricking soft baby skin made him cringe - all slipped on with little trouble. A far cry easier than it had been at the beginning when he had fumbled and stumbled about changing diapers. He was a pro now, could do it with his eyes closed.

Matty was cooperating today. He wasn't too fussy the way he usually was when it was time for a diaper change. Sometimes Matt thought the baby hated this more than he did.

The baby squirmed, babbling nonsense as Matt slipped his legs into the rubber diaper cover.

"There we go," Matt cooed, lifting the infant high above his head before bringing him back down so that they were nose to nose. "All better. Doesn't that feel good?"

Matty giggled, his sandy brown hands reaching out to touch Matt's cheeks.

Matt smiled and kissed his nose, his cheeks, and his dark brown curls. His life hadn't turned out how he had imagined it would. It was even better.

* * *

**Character:** Sylar  
**Rating:** PG  
**Prompt/Request:** In an episode, Hiro tells Sylar that they gather to kill him, no one mourned his death, etc. What if that affected him and he decided to not kill the cheerleader after all?  
**Warnings:** Gen, Angst, AU

He stood there, staring at Union Wells High School, listening to the excited cheers and the festive music echoing towards him from the football field. The building was nothing special. It didn't look like the high schools in New York - different architecture and all that - but it had the same feel. Even in the darkness of this late hour, he could practically see ghost like images the students trudging up the stone steps or standing by the railings and talk excitedly with their friends.

Yet there was something ominous about the building, something that told him to just turn around and walk away.

Sylar frowned, pulling the brim of his hat lower over his dark eyes. It wasn't the building and he knew it. It was that man at the diner.

_"You die alone,"_ he had told him, a grim look on his round, childlike face. _"You will kill many people. You will become strong. The strongest of them all. But in the end, it won't make any difference. We all gather to stop you. You're alone. No one will mourn your death. No one will shed a tear. No one."_

His stomach twisted as those words echoed in the back of his mind. They had been nearly unshakable ever since he'd inexplicably left the Burnt Toast diner. Before then, everything had made sense. People had abilities. They mistreated and neglected those abilities. He took them, appreciated them. He became powerful. Now it was different. Now there was a price, a price that seemed more tangible then threats of eternal damnation.

As Gabriel Gray he had known loneliness, he had known despair, but as Sylar he had felt in control, special. He felt as if he could change himself and his destiny. Now this man who claimed to be from the future was telling him that he was going down the same path and the only difference was that now it would be drenched in blood.

He looked down at his hands. His large, pale hands. These hands had fixed things, created things. Now they were tools of destruction. They took and crushed and destroyed life after life. It had seemed justifiable before, but now...

He felt tired, cold, and standing there on the abandoned steps of the Texas high school he was all alone.

With a disappointed sigh, he walked down the stone steps and left Union Wells and Sylar behind. Maybe now it wouldn't be too late.


	9. Mylar, Syloah, Plaude

**Pairing:** Mohinder/Sylar  
**Rating****:** PG  
**Prompt/Request:** I loved you the most  
**Warning:** Slash

"I loved you the most."

Mohinder blinked, startling at the abrupt comment. After three hours of straight silence - silence that was filled with nothing but static as both men took turns trying to find _something_ they could listen to on the radio, but only coming up with one sided talk radio or Christian folk music - the Indian was ready to listen to nothing more than the sounds of the car and the road until they reached their destination. Yet Sylar's words not only caught him off guard, they also instantly made him weary. Whatever it was that the man was getting at, it would surely lead to a fight.

"What?" he asked, trying to - for now - keep the weariness from his tone.

"I loved you the most," Sylar said again. "More than the girl or the fat cop or Petrelli or Maya or any of those other pathetic people you've filled your life with."

Mohinder rolled his eyes in disgust at the other man's comment. He didn't know what had brought this topic on, but it was certainly not something he wanted to discuss. "Well I'm glad to hear that," he snipped. "And here I was getting mixed signals from all those attempts on my life."

"I _never_ tried to kill you," Sylar shot back. "_You_ tried to kill me - you _did_ kill me - but I _never_ tried to kill you."

"Then what do you call-"

"Punishment," he snapped, cutting Mohinder off before he could recite the list of horrible things that Sylar had put him through, a list that they were both very familiar with. "Making us even. That's what I call it, Mohinder."

"Well what do you want from me?" he said tightly, keeping his eyes focused on the road even as his arms shook from the tension. "An apology? A sonnet? A confession of undying love!"

Silence settled on the car once again, yet Mohinder heard the unspoken "yes" loud and clear."

* * *

**Pairing:** Sylar/Bennet  
**Rating:** PG  
**Prompt/Request:** genderbent!Sylar/Noah, adventures as company partners (I'd prefer that Sylar has always been female here, but that's not a requirement)  
**Warning:** Gender Bender, AU, "Het"?

The term "insanely beautiful" took on a whole new meaning with her. She was intense; intimidatingly so - for most people - with piercing brown eyes that bore into you, studied you, saw every flaw and imperfection, peeling away your layers until she finally understood what made you tick.

There were a million reasons why he shouldn't like her - the top one being what she'd done to his little girl - and there were just as many why he shouldn't be staring at her - he clenched down on the steering wheel with near unnecessary force until the worn, golden band around his finger bit into him, reminding him that it was there - and he told himself that he didn't, that he wasn't.

A soft sigh escaped her lips - thin, but tempting with their fresh coat of dark red gloss - as she squirmed in her seat and used her deft, long fingers to pop open yet another button on her blouse, revealing a bit more soft, pale skin. She leaned forward, greedily hogging the cold blast of air from the vent and letting it caress her toned body.

Bennet pointedly turned his eyes back towards the road and told himself the only reason he was loosening his tie was because of the sweltering heat. It really wasn't the best weather to be dressed in such heavy layers and even after years of field work and business suits, he still wasn't used to it, so it didn't really surprise the man that his partner - and he used the term very loosely - was having such a hard time adjusting.

Sylar wasn't at all used to business attire. In her pre-brain stealing days she had been all sweater vests and khaki pants and clunky Mary Janes that made her foot falls heavy and inelegant. (Memories of the girl they had stalked and monitored and driven even further into madness still haunted him. To think if they had just let her be...) During her new life - under the guise of an identity she'd created for herself with the blood and screams of others - it had been nothing but dark clothes that either hid her from suspicious eyes or clung to every inch of her body, showing off the curves that Gabrielle Gray had been too shy to embrace (which ever was convenient to her situation was how she dressed).

Yet the business suit was new, brand new. A gift from mother dearest. Dark charcoal gray jacket and a matching skirt that hemmed off just above her knees. Burgundy blouse with an already low neckline that she kept adjusting and black pumps that brought out the shape of her long legs. It was an impractical ensemble for their line of work, but obviously Angela had been more concerned with making her "daughter" look as professional and charming as possible.

"So where are we headed to today?" Sylar asked, her husky tone dragging him out of his musings. "Anything interesting?"

"Routine," Bennet grumbled. "Just routine."

She turned to him, heavy brows that would have looked ridiculous on any other face furrowing in distaste at his words. "'Routine'? That's no fun," she practically pouted, shifting in her seat until she was all but lounging. "When are we going to do anything exciting?"

"Sorry, Gabrielle, but entertaining you is not part of my job."

Her dark gaze intensified at the use of her real name and Bennet had to fight to keep the triumphant smirk off of his lips.

She shifted again, turning in her seat so that her body was facing his. Long legs crossed smoothly as the hem of her skirt eased up ever so slightly along her creamy thigh. "Sorry if I'm just anxious to see you in action," she almost purred, her eyes hooding seductively as she leaned closer. He could smell her perfume - no doubt another gift - as her hand drifted onto his shoulder, caressing the fabric of his jacket. "Tell me; are there at least any good abilities to feast on? I'm eager for a bite."

It was strange that in an instant the idea of pulling off the road, grabbing her roughly and kissing those thin lips flashed to the front of his mind, but then he remembered Claire. He imagined her, pinned down and screaming, frightened out of her mind as this monster ripped her open and with those same fingers poked and prodded at her insides.

His hand clamped down on hers, gripping it with bruising force as he shoved it off. "Just sit tight and behave like a good girl," he ordered.

Bennet half expected her to turn away from him, huffing like an indignant teenager and glare out the window with a pout on her lips. Instead Sylar merely leaned back in her seat and smiled as if she had seen the flair of his base urges with her own two eyes. He suddenly longed to grab the gun in his holster and empty the clip in her chest.

Soon.

Soon.

* * *

**Pairing:** Peter/Claude  
**Rating:** PG  
**Prompt/Request:** Peter/Claude, fairy tale AU  
**Warning:** AU, Sillyness

"Sir Claude, I am in need of your help."

Claude cringed at the voice that had quickly become far too familiar. Every night for the past week the lad had been coming to the pub, interrupting his peace and quiet with the same old speech. Claude had thought that he was hidden, thought that the smoke and shadows of the back end of the room were enough to make him nearly invisible, but sharp brown eyes had spotted him anyway. "Does the word 'retired' mean nothin' to you, pup?"

Silence and a determined squaring of shoulders was his only answer as the youth once again proved his determination. Yet Claude was not impressed. He had seen far too many bright eyed, eager young pups scampering into his pub, begging for his help. Although most of them got the clue after three consecutive no's. The boy was the first to last this long.

"Sorry, friend, 's like I told ya last night; I'm not interested in going on any quests."

"But my kingdom is in danger," the boy lamented, pulling up a chair across from him and causing the legs to scrape against the rough wooden floor. If it weren't for the tavern's pointed lack of patrons, Claude would have actually been a bit worried about attracting unwanted attention. Yet as it stood, he was in the clear. "A horrible fate will befall everyone in the land if you do not help me."

He shrugged, tapping the surface of his tankard absently. "Not any of my concerned."

The boy stared, sputtering indignantly at his words. "Not your concern?" he repeated. "How can you say such a thing?"

"Simple, I open my mouth an' words come out."

A groan - make that a growl - came from between gritted teeth and Claude half expected the boy to dissolve into a petulant temper tantrum. Not that he could really blame him at this point. The boy was the type that cared too much, that put everyone else before himself, and couldn't understand others acting any differently. Needless to say, Claude's pointed indifference was both frustrating and perplexing to him. "You're not the Claude Rains I heard stories about," the boy accused. "You're not the knight that minstrels wrote ballads about."

"Clearly," he groused, standing up to grab the boy none too gently by the arm. "An' I think it's high time you were headin' home, mate."

The boy yelped, startled, as Claude all but dragged him through the tavern and out into the streets. The abrupt shift from dank, smoke filled air to the crisp, cool midsummer breeze was startling. The outside world, lit by only a few torches and the moon directly above them was just enough for him to make out the indignant scowl marring the boy's face.

"I'll keep coming back," he promised. "You can turn me away tonight, but I'll be back the next night and the night after."

Claude snorted, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, you're a real persistent young pup, but I'm as stubborn as they come. D'ya really think you'll be able ta get me ta join your cause jus' by badgerin' me ta death?"

The boy's mouth drew into a tight line and even in the gloom of the late hour Claude could tell that he was blushing. "I... I'm not giving up. I need help. There are people, innocent people whose lives are in danger."

He sighed, crossing his arms over his chest; because despite the lack of light the kid's big brown puppy dog eyes were still working their magic on him. "I understand, friend," Claude said and he did understand. A long time ago, in another life, he had been someone who had cared, and in that life he'd gotten an arrow in his side for all the good that caring had done him. "But I'm not the one to help you. 'Sides, I'm sure there are plenty of fine, eager young knights out there that would be more than willin' ta offer ya their sword, Prince Peter."

The boy - Peter - stiffened, his eyes widening as he took a hesitant step back. "How... how did-?"

"Ya think I wouldn't notice the crown prince wandering in to my neck of the woods?" he scoffed. "Don't give me much credit, do ya Petey?"

"Well, how did you know?" Peter asked anyway, and if Claude weren't already certain he wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, he knew now.

"First of all, ya've got all yer teeth." The prince blushed, pressing his mouth tighter as if to hide the evidence. "Second, ya talk too good."

Peter sighed, brushing his hair out of his face. "If you know who I am, then you know what I have to offer you," he said, and truly he was a tiring thing. "Gold, jewels, anything you want will be yours, just ask."

Claude laughed, because it was too easy. "Anything?" he repeated, looking the boy up and down.

"Anything," he confirmed, completely missing the way he was being studied.

"Kiss me."

Peter blinked, paled as he stared in horror and the reaction alone was almost enough to satisfy the retired knight. "Whuh...?"

"Ya said 'anything', yeah? Well I want you ta kiss me."

The prince blushed, bowing his head sheepishly. "I can't."

Claude laughed, despite his disappointment in the response he had to admit that this was quite entertaining. "Can't?" he said again. "Jus' a kiss, 'your highness.'"

"Well... I can't do that," he answered, embarrassment quickly shifting into indignant anger. "And frankly, you wouldn't want me to."

His ears perked up at that comment. Suddenly things had gotten quite interesting. "That so?" A nod. "Well, what if I were ta help ya out, join your crusade? Would ya be able to kiss me then?"

A shrug and Claude knew that Peter was too innocent and naive to even think of lying. "I don't know. I... maybe."

He smiled. "Well, shall we be off then?"

Claude turned, walking off, not at all bothering to watch Peter's reaction, but from the way eager young feet quicken their pace to catch up with him.


	10. Girl Peter

**Pairing:** Girl!Peter/Claude  
**Rating:** R  
**Prompt/Request:** Peter/Claude: girl!Peter  
**Warnings:** Genderbender, AU, Het?, Sex (Not very graphic)

"This is dangerous ya know."

She turned to him, a quizzical look on her face as if that were the last thing she was expecting to hear from _him_. "What? Inviting a guy I barely know into my empty apartment in the middle of the night is suddenly dangerous?" Petra frowned, her lips - small and pink and slightly crooked in a way that was not at all unappealing - pouted thoughtfully. "Gee, never would have guessed that."

Claude snorted, stuffing his hands - still wet and trembling ever so slightly from the rain that had soaked them both right through their clothes - into his pockets and hoping that his indignant scowl would work on the far too trusting, far too naive for her own good young woman in front of him. It wouldn't. He knew it.

He may have only known Petra Petrelli for a few days, but he knew her type well enough. She should have been a spoiled little rich girl, relishing in the extravagant lifestyle that her family and their influence entitled her to, but that wasn't her. Petra was the odd one out - in spite of her status as the little princess of the Petrelli house - and like any family outcast she became a rebel, revolting in the one way she could, the one way her family wouldn't understand: by caring. That's why she became a nurse instead of a doctor or a lawyer, that's why she lived on her own away from her family and their money and judging eyes, that's why she had chosen Claude instead of her brother.

She fumbled with her keys for just a moment, her own fingers still fighting off the chill of a late fall downpour, before a distinct click sounded through the hallway.

"Didn't your parents train you better than this poodle?" Claude asked, hesitating as she opened the door to let him in. "Allowin' someone like me inta your flat... could make off with something irreplaceable."

Petra was already shrugging out of her jacket as he spoke, but she stopped just long enough to frown at him warily. "I'm not a virgin if that's what you're getting at," she scoffed, placing the soaking wet garment on a hook near the door. "And besides, I've got like, a bazillion abilities in my head. I'm pretty sure I'm anything but defenseless."

"A 'bazillion abilities' that ya haven't quite mastered yet, pup," he reminded her, standing in the doorway as if blocked by some unseen force. He didn't want to go in. Sure he had snuck in before, but that was different, this was different. Being invited into a cozy little apartment by a pretty young girl nearly half his age wasn't something he was ready for, not tonight.

"Just come in!" Petra sighed, grabbing his arm and dragging him through the threshold. She flicked a few switches and suddenly the apartment was flooded with light.

Claude groaned allowing himself to be lead inside. His clothes made wet, sopping noises with each move he made and caused Petra to stare at him, thoughtfully for a moment.

"Stay here. I'll be right back," she instructed, disappearing around the corner.

The Brit took another reluctant step inside, looking around the flat wearily. It was small - one bedroom, one bathroom - and neat and quietly girlish. There were so many pictures and keepsakes decorating the walls and shelves that Claude almost felt as if he were in a museum. He spotted several pictures of Petra and her brother - a little girl with her brown hair in pig tails smiling sweetly with her arms wrapped possessively around the neck of a strong chinned young man; the same brother and sister, much older now, wearing formal clothing in front of a plain blue backdrop - a few of her mother - dear lord did they look alike - and not a single trace of her father.

"Here," Petra announced, returning with a few towels in her arms. "Sorry I don't have anything for you to wear."

"S'alright," he mumbled, taking the offered towels, "wasn't expectin' you to."

She smiled, brushing her hair out of her eyes. "I'm, uh, gonna go change," she said. "Go ahead and make yourself comfortable."

Claude watched as Petra turned and left, disappearing into her bedroom. The door closed with a soft click and suddenly his stomach felt tight, full. If he were a smarter man, he would have turned and left, but he was torn between logic and his own sense of curiosity. He turned towards the window just in time to see a flash of lightning and the rain intensify. This wouldn't exactly be the first storm he'd slept in, but he had to admit that being trapped inside was a much more appealing alternative. Claude sighed, shrugging off his coat and hanging it next to Petra's. That seemed wrong.

He dried his hair and his arms then tossed the towel aside as he headed towards the refrigerator. He wasn't surprised to find that there wasn't any beer - Petra didn't strike him as much of a drinker to begin with - but the lack of any food that wasn't an individually wrapped, microwavable, low fat meal was disheartening to say the least.

"Yeah. I'm not a very good cook."

Claude had to fight to keep himself from jumping at Petra's unexpected presence, but he managed to come off looking calm and indifferent as he closed the door to the refrigerator and turned to look at her. "Not surprised. Doubt you ever had ta learn, ya? Probably had a million maids waitin' round ta make ya fresh baked cookies when you were a pup."

"I learned a little," Petra assured him. "I'm just not very good."

He laughed, trying his best not to look at the thin, worn white t-shirt and short blue boxers she was wearing. The amount of smooth, pale skin she was showing was a painful reminder of how long it had been since he'd slept with anyone and suddenly Claude wished he hadn't thought of that. He stepped away only to have his hips collide with the counter and suddenly he felt very hot.

"I should go."

"Go?" Petra echoed, turning to glance out the window. Rain was still coming down in buckets, but the lightning seemed to have stopped. Still, Claude knew it was too much to hope for that Petra would allow him to leave. "You can't go out in that. Stay here tonight."

She grabbed his wrist and her hands were so soft and gentle that it actually pained him. "Alright, that's enough now," he said, jerking away from her.

Petra blinked, startled, as she took a confused step back. "Whuh-"

"Musta knocked you around too much today," he went on, grabbing her small shoulders and pushing her away, holding her against the opposite wall as if he were afraid of her touch. "Just... just stop it."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Petra argued and she almost had him convinced. "I'm just offering you a place to stay for the night."

Claude scoffed as he let her go. "Yeah, that's it. A nice roof over my head, a warm bed ta sleep in, an' then little Pet's got herself a new boyfriend ta make mummy an' big brother nice an' angry."

Petra's eyes were wide, impossibly so, as she stared up at him, unblinking as they slowly filled with justified indignation. She looked as if Claude had reached out and slapped her and suddenly the Brit felt as if he had. "Is that really what you think of me?" she said, whispered really. "You think I'm just some... some floozy? Some spoiled rich girl who'll sleep with random guys just to get attention?"

His throat tightened and he refused to apologize even if he did feel like a complete ass.

"You know, just because something crappy happened to you a long time ago doesn't mean that everyone out there is a two faced jerk," she muttered, wrapping her arms tightly around herself as if suddenly aware of how little she was wearing. "Sometimes when someone does something nice, it's just because they want to be nice."

"You've got a lot ta learn about the world, Pet."

Petra sighed, running her slim fingers through her floppy brown hair. "I think you should go."

Claude didn't protest, didn't argue as he pushed himself off of the counter and turned to leave. He stopped, however, when a pair of slim, confident hands grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back. He stiffened as soft, pink lips pressed themselves firmly against his own. Petra's arms wrapped themselves around his neck and his arms wrapped around her waist and suddenly they were impossibly close, her thin body flat against his own.

A soft moan escaped Petra's lips when they parted. "But I really want you to stay."

Claude sighed, because damn it all if he didn't want to stay too. "Right then," he breathed. "Suppose I could stay a while longer."

The smile that spread across the young woman's lips was blinding as she grabbed his hand and lead him back to her bedroom. "Good to know," she chuckled. "And maybe if you keep your mouth shut, you might end up with a pretty decent breakfast in the morning."

He smirked. "So you won't be cookin' then?"

Petra scoffed and even though he couldn't see it, Claude could tell she was rolling her eyes at him. Still, she didn't turn him away and for that he was thankful. She stepped into her bedroom and the girl's natural reflex was to turn on the lights. Claude's response to that was to quickly shut them off. Petra turned to stare at him, confusion shifting her soft features into a slight frown.

"Not doin' that," he told her simply. "Not... not tonight."

She nodded, trying her best to understand - because how could a pretty little girl like that really understand - as she guided him the rest of the way to the bed. He sat down, awkwardly, remembering how wet his clothes still were. The mattress squeaked under his weight and he was thankful that it was dark so he wouldn't have to be treated to the sight of Petra's no doubt overly girlish bedroom.

Claude didn't know what he was expecting, but he was startled when Petra climbed onto his lap, straddling his hips with her firm legs before pressing their lips together. Her arms wrapped around his neck again and his hands were practically shaking with... with... he didn't know why they were shaking, but he couldn't stop them from trembling as they grabbed the girl's hips, clinging to her desperately.

Petra pulled away slowly and if it weren't for the soft moan that escaped her lips, Claude would have sworn that she realized what a mistake she had made. "Mmm... lie back," she instructed, her hands sliding to his shoulders. She pushed him back, guiding him to lie against the mattress.

He went down with little resistance and suddenly he couldn't take his eyes off of her. She smiled down at him, playful and sweet, as slim fingers gripped the hem of her shirt and lifted the white fabric clear over her head. Claude felt his heart beating a mile a minute as the t-shirt was tossed across the room, lying out of sight and forgotten. Firm breasts stared back at him - not overtly big, but round and perky and just the right size for the small frame above him - and suddenly his cock, which had already been quite hard, was painfully stiff.

Petra giggled, no doubt feeling his "eagerness" beneath her, as she grabbed at his shirt, tugging at the still wet fabric to give it the same treatment. He stopped her, slapping young hands away. "Won't be doin' that either," he told her when brown eyes narrowed in confusion.

"I get it," Petra whispered, sliding off of him. "I get it."

Claude sat up stiffly, using his elbows for support. He thought for certain that she was going to get dressed and kick him out for real this time. Instead, he watched as those small blue boxers slid down narrow hips and his body didn't know whether to relax or tense.

"Petra," he breathed as she reached into her bedside table and pulled out a condom.

She climbed back on top of him, kissing him as she fumbled with his belt buckle. "It's okay," she whispered, her lips never fully leaving his even as her nimble fingers managed to get his fly undone, freeing his straining erection. She had the decency not to even attempt to take his pants all the way off and for that he was grateful. "It's okay. Just... just relax."

As she unrolled the condom and slid it onto his cock, Claude suddenly felt guilty for making the girl do all the hard work. Surely there was something _he_ could have done. No doubt she was used to taking care of others given her job and all, but he was no bedridden old man (although he certainly felt like Father Time underneath the young body crawling on top of him).

"Petra," he began again, but his train of thought completely dissolved as the girl straddled him again, impaling herself with his straining cock. A slew of grunts and groans fell from his lips as his hands instinctively went to her thighs again, fingers digging into the soft skin.

Petra's head flew back, her eyes screwed shut, and her mouth fell open in a wordless cry. It was a beautiful sight, one that only got better as she began to move, sliding up and down on his cock. Her cheeks flushed and her loose brown her falling around her face as slim fingers clung to the front of his shirt. He wasn't going to last very long, not with her moving like this.

"Pet," he groaned, screwing his eyes shut and hoping that the lack of a visual would help him to last longer.

No good. He could still _feel_ her and the soft, moans and mewls she was making certainly didn't help.

"Claude." she breathed, picking up speed. "Oh, Claude!"

He lost it then, hearing his name said like that from those lips was enough to send him over the edge. Claude felt his face flush as his hands clutched Petra's sides with bruising force as he came, a sea of white exploding before his eyes. His body was already slack against the mattress when Petra collapsed on top of him, having already met her own release.

"That wasn't so bad right?" Petra asked after they had both gotten a chance to catch their breath.

Claude chuckled, craning his neck to see that, yes, the rain had indeed stopped. Petra sighed, curling against him and running her fingers lazily against his now partially ripped shirt. "Yeah. Not bad at all."


	11. Girl Peter 2

**Pairing:** Adam/Girl!Peter, past Claude/Girl!Peter  
**Rating:** R  
**Prompt:** Adam/Girl!Peter/Claude (NOTE: I didn't really deliver on the threesome request as this story ended up as more of a love triangle. Also, this can be seen as a sequel to my previous Girl!Peter fic)  
**Warning:** Gender Bender, AU, Unintentional Voyeurism, (non-graphic) Sex (feel free to skip over if it makes you uncomfortable)

Petra frowned, wrinkling her nose in distaste as she studied her reflection with a critical eye. It had been a while since she was able to look at herself in the mirror and truly recognize the face staring back at her, yet now that she could she didn't like what she saw. Her face was the same, but her hair was all wrong.

Her scowl deepened as she ran slim fingers through too short brown hair. The moment she had seen Elle come at her with a pair of scissors, Petra had panicked knowing exactly what the blonde had had in mind. Yet for some reason, she told herself to just grin and bear it convinced that being easy going and complacent would help her time confined within the Company go by that much faster. Looking back, she regretted the move. Elle had cut off far too much, cropped her hair until it was in a boyish style that didn't at all flatter her features.

That had been four months ago and enough time had passed between her last cut that Petra could actually comb her hair in such a way that allowed it to drape over one half of her eye, framing her face and giving off a more feminine appearance. Still, it didn't feel right and suddenly the young woman missed her shoulder length brown locks.

The sound of the door knob twisting caused her heart to jump into her throat. Petra's face flushed as she clutched at the towel that was already wrapped tightly around her small frame.

"Jesus, Adam," she breathed as the blond man eased the door open. "Aren't you old enough to know how to knock?"

Adam chuckled and even as she blushed and squirmed away, Petra could still feel his eyes roaming over her barely covered frame. "Sorry, Pet," Adam smirked. "It's not like you have anything I haven't seen before. Besides, if you're that embarrassed, why don't you just turn yourself invisible?"

Her throat tightened at the suggestion and suddenly Petra didn't want to think of that particular ability. "Whether I'm visible or not, I'm still not dressed," she said, hoping the excuse would be enough to hide the way her heart was slowly sinking. "What do you want anyway?"

"Just to check on you," he said, leaning against the doorframe casually. "You've been in here for some time, Petra. We've got dinner reservations in an hour, you know."

"Yeah, well..." Her words fumbled to a halt as she slowly took in this new bit of information. "Reservations?"

Adam nodded, blue eyes twinkling with mischief. "That's right."

Petra laughed, brushing a few loose strands of hair out of her face. "Adam, I don't..." she stuttered, blushing furiously, because this man who was many decades her senior was flirting with her and not bothering to hide it. "Aren't we supposed to be stopping a virus from being released? I mean, I could just teleport us to Maine."

"Petra, I've been locked up in a cell for thirty years," he chided. "Don't you think I deserve to enjoy my freedom for a little bit?"

She sighed, shrugging her shoulders in defeat. "I guess, but... but I don't want to waste too much time."

"Of course not."

"And... and do you think, maybe I could call my brother?"

Adam frowned, a pained look flashing through his clear blue eyes as he shook his head. "Fraid not, Pet," he told her. "It's too dangerous."

The answer didn't surprise her, but that didn't stop Petra's heart from clenching in response. She missed her family, she missed Nathan, and all she wanted to do was call him and make sure that everything was alright. The last time Petra had seen her brother was in the hospital bed she'd put him in, watching the disfiguring scars that she'd created melt away.

"I... I miss him, Adam," she tried to explain, hugging herself tightly. "I... I just want to tell him that I'm okay. He's probably worried about me and... And I know Nathan won't rat us out to the Company."

"He won't have to," Adam cut in. He pushed himself off of the doorframe, taking a few steps closer. Petra had to fight the urge to squirm when he placed a hand on her shoulder a gave her a gentle squeeze. His hand was warm and sure against her flushed skin. "The Company knows you're still on the loose so there s no doubt they'll be watching your brother expecting you to contact him. Sorry, Pet. It's just too risky."

Petra nodded, because she did understand even if it wasn't the answer she wanted to hear. "I guess you're right," she muttered, rubbing her exposed arm uncomfortably. "But, uh, when all this is done I can talk to him, right?"

"Course you can, Pet," Adam assured her, caressing her shoulder with the pad of his thumb. "I'm not asking you to cut your family out of your life." She smiled, because it was reassuring to hear. "Now why don't you get dressed for dinner?"

"Get dressed in what?" she laughed, suddenly not only aware of how incredibly naked she was, but how little she had. "I don't have anything except those sweats I was wearing and they're pretty filthy."

"Don't worry about that. I've got you covered."

She frowned, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "You bought me clothes?" she asked, chuckling softly at her companion's forwardness. "When was this? And with what money exactly?"

"Never you mind," he chided, giving her shoulder another squeeze before taking an almost reluctant step back. His hand slipped away from her and as uncomfortable as his presence made her, the loss of contact actually made her shoulder feel bare. "Just wait right here and I'll bring you something to slip into."

She nodded as Adam turned to leave, stopping only as a thought popped into her head. "Adam," she began. He froze, staring at her curiously. "I'm not getting undressed in front of you."

Adam laughed, a slight smile pulling at his lips. "Of course. Not yet."

* * *

Restaurants were easy targets, especially high end places like this one. Claude always found it ironic that the richer people were, the less guarded they tended to be with their belongings. Cell phones were left on tables, purses hung behind chairs, and of course the tips were always left unattended and easily accessible. Not that he really needed cash. He didn't have to buy anything, so collecting bills was pointless, unless he wanted to amuse himself.

A smirk spread across Claude's features when he spotted a generous tip placed in the middle of an empty table. Not all that surprising really. In places like this the tips were usually staggering to match the cost of the food. This was certainly a time to collect a few bills. Not that money was what he was after. Stealing thick slabs of steak off of unsuspecting trays was more his thing, but even then Claude didn't normally wandering into such lavish places.

He couldn't say what brought him here tonight, but when the sound of a familiar laugh drifted his way, Claude knew he wouldn't be wandering away any time soon. He turned and saw her, a few tables away, pale skin glowing in the warm candle light.

Petra.

To say he was startled was an understatement, because they were miles away from New York and Petra... Petra was hale and whole and most certainly not dead and that was easily the biggest surprise of all. He had seen the explosion in the sky, had watched as a small burst of light broke through the darkness, sending wind rippling, causing the ground to shake and he had known that she was gone.

Yet there she was, different but still the same. Her hair was several inches shorter, cropped neatly and framing her soft features and her dress - tight and red with a black sash highlighting her narrow waist - was unlike anything Claude had ever seen her in.

She was with someone, a blond bloke that Claude couldn't recognize - the stranger's back was facing him, so that certainly didn't help any - but he felt a strange warmth growing in the pit of his stomach at the way Petra smiled at her companion.

His hands tightened, curling themselves into fists unconsciously as he stalked over towards their table, tripping up a few waiters and bust boys as he went.

"You know, this place is kinda..." he heard Petra say, making a slightly disinterested face as she stabbed at what was left of her food. "I would have settled for a burger and fries instead of foie gras and caviar."

Claude had to bite his lip to keep from laughing at that, because the poodle always did have deceptively simple taste. Yet the hand that reached across the table and placed itself firmly on top of hers made his throat tighten.

"Well you're worth it, Pet."

That voice, so hauntingly familiar, caused his stomach to tighten and do back flips inside of him. It was a voice that he hadn't heard in years, a voice that would call to him, taunting and smug, from behind thick panes of glass, a voice that should still be locked away in New York. He shifted, taking a step closer to the table so he could get a better look and see that, yes, it was in fact Adam Monroe sitting across the table holding Petra Petrelli's hand.

_Oh, Pet. You stupid girl. What have you done?_

"And really, do you think I'd spend my first proper night out in thirty years eating at a McDonald's?"

Petra chuckled, pulling her hand away as a faint blush colored her cheeks. "Well, if you have money like this to waste on dinner and... and _clothes_ then we could have used it for more important things."

"Petra," Adam cut in, his tone chiding, but the girl would not be silenced.

"Adam, we're supposed to be stopping a virus from being unleashed," she said, having the good graces to whisper the words, but Claude sincerely wished that _he_ hadn't heard her. Surely the girl couldn't be talking about _that_ virus. "Millions of people are going to die and we're making pit stops for... for... what?"

"For _you_, Pet," Adam said. His voice was filled with such sincerity that Claude almost believed him. "You've been through so much lately. I just want you to-"

"To what? To relax?" Petra sighed, rubbing at her arms vigorously as if fighting off a chill that only she felt. "I can't sit easily when I know what's waiting around the corner, Adam, and it's bad... real bad." She stopped, a worried frown gracing her features and for a moment Claude thought she might get up and walk away from the table. He silently willed her to, because it would give him the perfect opportunity to talk some sense into her.

Adam must have noticed the urge to flee as well as he reached across the table and grabbed her hand yet again. "You're right, Petra," he told her, squeezing her hand reassuringly. "We are wasting time, but you do need to get some rest. Tell you what, we'll head back to the hotel, go straight to bed and get an early start in the morning. What do you say?"

She smiled in response, happy to be met half way.

They stood as Adam threw down what must have been far too many bills onto the table. Claude ignored them. His eyes were fixed on the pair as he mindfully stepped out of their way. His stomach tightened as Adam wrapped an arm around Petra's narrow waist and for a split second, Claude could have sworn the man looked directly at him.

* * *

He followed the pair back to their hotel room, his stomach feeling very much like leather left out in the late summer sun as he watched the two walk side by side, Adam's arm never straying from its place wrapped firmly around Petra. Claude felt like he was about to explode when he saw Petra's head bob slightly before leaning against Adam's shoulder.

When they returned to their hotel - and he could tell from the looks of the building that Petra had probably given Adam an earful about renting such an extravagant suit - he waited a few minutes before sneaking into their room. When he entered, quietly and completely undetected, Claude found that Adam was nowhere to be seen and Petra - heaven help him - was undressing.

Claude was many things, but he certainly was not a prude. Yet the sight of pale skin sliding out from underneath red satin was enough to give even him pause. Suddenly revealing his presence to the girl didn't seem like such a good idea as he sat back and watched the dress fall into a pool of red around her feet. She stepped out, crossing the room in nothing but a black bra and matching panties. His heart was thrumming and blood rushed to his cock, because it had been a long time since he had been treated to such a sight.

A thoughtful frown spread across the girl's features as she searched the room, looking for something, but coming up empty handed. With a frustrated sigh, she grabbed a men's shirt - Adam's - and slipped it on. The hem of the shirt barely made it past her hips and the fabric was thin enough that Claude could still make out her underwear and somehow that was just as enticing.

The bathroom door opened and Petra blushed, wrapping her arms around herself as if suddenly realizing how little she was wearing.

Adam walked out, shirtless and wet, wearing nothing but a pair of low hanging sweatpants and Claude was starting to realize how bad this idea was.

"You, uh... I couldn't find anything to sleep in so I borrowed this," Petra explained.

Adam smiled, reaching out to finger the shirt's sleeve. "That's alright," he said. "Looks better on you anyway."

She chuckled nervously, her eyes drifting downward before flicking back to meet Adam's gaze. "Which bed do you want?" she asked, and Claude wondered how he could have missed the fact that there were two beds in the hotel room.

Adam shrugged in response, his eyes never leaving the girl's face. "Lady's choice."

Petra's lips parted, ready to speak, but words never came out. Instead she leaned forward and planted her mouth firmly on Adam's. The kiss was so sudden that even Adam looked stunned, yet the man recovered from his shock quickly enough as he wrapped his hands around Petra's waist, pressing her flushed against him.

Claude knew he shouldn't stick around, he knew that he should leave - he _wanted_ to leave - yet his feet felt like lead underneath him and he suddenly couldn't bring himself to move.

A strangled moan escaped Petra's swollen lips as Adam grabbed her hips, lifting her off of the ground. Her long legs instinctively wrapped themselves around Adam's waist, holding him possessive as the immortal guided them towards one of the beds, where they collapsed in a tangled heap. Petra moaned, back arching in pleasure as Adam's lips suddenly moved from her mouth to her neck. Her hands flew to the man's hair, fingers gripping blond strands fiercely as the immortal's own hands slid under the soft fabric of her shirt, caressing the bare skin underneath.

"Adam," she cried, one hand going to rest on his shoulder and Claude prayed she was trying to push him away. "Adam."

Adam backed off, reluctantly, as he gazed down at the girl writhing and moaning underneath him. "What is it, Pet?"

Her hand, small and trembling, slid from his chest to his bicep. She held him there, her grip firm even as her arm shook. "Are you... are you going to leave?"

He frowned, Claude frowned, both men cocking their heads in confusion at Petra's strange question. "What do you mean?" Adam asked.

"You're not going to leave me are you?" she whispered. The words were like a knife in Claude's heart and the tears that glistened in soft brown eyes causing the blade to twist painfully. "Tell me... please tell me you're not going to leave?"

A smile was her response as Adam leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to pink lips. "I'll never leave you, Pet," Adam promised, kissing away the tears streaming down full cheeks. "Feel better now?"

She nodded, a pained smile spreading across her features as Adam's hands gripped the end of her t-shirt. She sat up, allowing the man to remove the garment before reaching around and unhooking her own bra revealing perky breasts and pink, rose colored nipples. Adam smiled as it was removed, before leaning in and raining soft kisses against her taunt stomach. Petra sighed, collapsing against the soft mattress as Adam kissed his way down to her navel, before gently removing her panties, sliding it down her hips and tossing it aside.

"You're so beautiful," he told her and Claude had to agree. She was all lean limbs, full breasts, and soft skin and Claude wanted her. He wanted her so bad that he had half a mind to knock Adam aside and take Petra himself. Yet he didn't. He stayed quiet, watching from the corner. He'd had his chance and he'd lost it. This was all he was going to get now.

"I don't wanna be the only naked one here," Petra whispered, her slim hands tugging at Adam's sweats.

The man chuckled leaning forward to kiss her as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a condom. _Sneaky son of a bitch._ "Course not, Pet," Adam murmured, pulling his pants down over narrow hips and tossing them aside.

Claude knew that Adam was hundreds of years his senior, but looking at the other man - at the two of them really - made _him_ feel like the ancient one. Adam was tanned and lean and healthy, while he was old and scruffy and loosing what muscle he had with each passing day. Christ, maybe they deserved each other.

He cringed as he watch Adam unwrap the condom and slide it on as Petra spread her legs in anticipation. They came together with a sigh and a moan. Petra's eyes screwed shut, her nose wrinkling in what looked like pain at the sensation of being filled up so suddenly.

"Christ you're tight," Adam breathed, his own eyes drifting closed as he fought to keep his hips still. He opened his eyes, his brow furrowing in slight concern at the look on Petra's face. "You alright, Pet?"

"Fine," she assured him. "I'm fine, just... just move."

The words were enough to make Claude's knees feel weak as he suddenly found himself leaning heavily against the wall.

Adam chuckled as he began to thrust into her, slow at first, but he soon picked up speed as Petra's legs circled his waist, squeezing down, desperate for more. They rocked against each other, moaning and sighing, each noise making the tightness between Claude's legs grow. He saw Petra clawing at Adam's back, leaving angry red streaks that quickly disappeared into memory. Adam's mouth clamped down on Petra's shoulder, sucking and biting possessively.

"Pet," he moaned, licking at the growing red spot. "Petra!"

Her back arched then, head flying back as her mouth flew open in a wordless cry. Claude felt his own eyes squeeze shut as he bit into his hand, muffling the cry that longed to escape his lips as he came in his own pants. Adam groaned, trembling, before collapsing on top of her.

Claude's knees completely gave out then and he actually had to slump down against the far wall, blessing his invisibility for not the first time. His lungs were on fire, his head was reeling. The scene was like beautiful torture and he suddenly needed to get the hell out of there.

He stifled a groan as he pushed himself to stand on shaking feet, yet once he was up, he paused, because Adam was staring right at him.

"Did you enjoy that Rains?" the man asked, whispering the words so as not to disturb the girl sleeping peacefully beside him. "I do hope so. I wanted to make it a good show for you."

Claude frowned as his skin tingled, visible once more. He should have known that Adam would notice his presence. Healing may have been the man's only ability, but he had been around long enough to know when he was being watched by invisible eyes. "What are ya doin' with her, mate?" Claude whispered, struggling to keep his eyes off of Petra's naked form. "She's just a dumb pup."

Adam tsked, grabbing the sheets and draping them over Petra's bare skin. "It's that exact attitude that made you lose her in the first place, friend. Thought you would have learned by now." Adam looked at him, his blue eyes cold and piercing as they tore into him. "Now I think it's time for you to leave."

"Not without her," he said, his hands balling into fists at his side.

The other man laughed, rolling his eyes at Claude's words. "Yes, go ahead and take her, and feel free to mention how you got here and what you just saw. I'm sure she'll be _thrilled_ about that."

"You'll be just as bad off as me, mate."

"That's the difference between you and me, Rains," Adam said, tapping his head thoughtfully. "Telepaths don't work on me. They can look into my head all they want, they'll only find what I want them to see. Now go quietly or you and sweet Petra will have a very poor reunion."

His eyes narrowed, his jaw tightened, and a smart man would have listened, but Petra had a strange effect on him. "What are you planin' on doin' with her? Once you release the virus that is. She'll be none too happy with ya then."

Adam shrugged, his gaze drifting back towards the body resting peacefully beside him. "She'll get over it in time," he said, brushing a strand of brown hair out of her face. "We'll have an eternity to spend together and I'll need someone by my side to help me shape the new world."

As if to add salt to Claude's already aching wound, Adam bent down and pressed a tender kiss to Petra's cheek. The girl sighed in her sleep, leaning into Adam's warmth. Claude felt his heart crack, breaking at the tenderness even as he slipped back into invisibility. As he left the hotel room, he promised himself that this wasn't over, that he would come back for Petra. She needed to be rescued from this nightmare.


	12. Camping

**Pairing: **Sylar/Mohinder**  
Rating:** PG**  
Prompt/Request:** Camping  
**Warnings:** Humor, Slash

"Are we at the grounds yet?"

"Jesus, Mohinder! We've only been in the car for an hour."

"This is a stupid idea," Mohinder grumbled bitterly as he slumped further into the tan suede seats of their rental car. He must have said those words over a dozen times since Matt had come up with his brilliant idea. When the detective had suggested that the three of them pack their bags and get out of the city, Mohinder had been completely in favor of the idea, until Matt had added that his idea of "getting out of the city" included leaving the comfort of the indoors to squat in the mud and be eaten alive by flies.

Camping? Of all the ridiculous things he had ever heard, spending the weekend camping was highest on his list. And just to add insult to injury, Matt insisted that a vital part of the "camping experience" included waking up at the crack of dawn. They would have to pack themselves and only belongings that would be absolutely "vital" to the trip into a car when there was barely enough light out to see an inch in front of them.

Yet Matt had been adamant that they at least give it a try - insisting that it would be a nice change of pace and a great opportunity to get some fresh air - and Mohinder had relented, somewhat, because after all, it had been a while since they had done anything Matt wanted.

"I see," Matt huffed defensively, "it's stupid because it's my idea."

Mohinder sighed, rolling his eyes dramatically. "I didn't say that! Don't be that way."

"Well don't be _that_ way," he shot back. "You've been whining and crying about this for days-"

"I have not _cried_!"

"- is it really going to kill you to just unplug?" Matt continued, ignoring Mohinder's words as if the Indian had never spoken. "For a little while at least?"

He gave another overly dramatic sigh, his arms crossing even tighter over his chest and his fingers digging into the sleeve of his shirt. "Fine," he conceded. "I will stop complaining." _Out loud._ Mohinder wasn't certain whether or not Matt heard that last thought, but from the way the other man's lips pressed together, he could assume that Matt at least thought he wasn't going to keep that promise.

The discussion settled, Mohinder decided then to focus his attention on the road. When Matt had said he wanted to get out of the city, Mohinder had thought that the man merely wanted to leave Brooklyn, but apparently getting out of the borough wasn't far enough for him. Instead they were driving to some park upstate, somewhere that had no wifi, no stores, and far removed from any basketball courts, playgrounds, or golf courses.

"And no cell phone signal," Mohinder had added bitterly. Matt's only response to his assumption was a short laugh and a secretive smirk.

Silence settled into the sedan as Mohinder occupied himself with watching the tall buildings slowly pass them by. The sun was now up and he could actually see more than just street lights and lights in windows. Still, the pink orange hue of the sky was a clear reminder of the hour and all the hundreds of different things that he could be doing instead of _this_. He honestly couldn't say that he would miss the city so much as he would miss the comfort of being surrounded by four walls, a ceiling, and a solid floor.

The quiet couldn't have lasted more than a minute before Molly asked, "Are we gonna die?"

Mohinder felt his eyes widened to the size of dinner plates as he twisted around in his seat to stare at the girl who only stared back at him with sincere worry in her bright eyes. "Wh-what?" he stammered as a mixture of shock and slight horror welled up inside of him.

"No body's gonna _die_, Molly," Matt assured. He jerked his head around to look the girl in the eye before quickly turning back to face the road. "What would give you _that_ idea?"

Mohinder was absolutely appalled when Matt gave him a very pointed glare. As if he would ever do something as thoughtless as the possibility of murder in front of the girl.

"Well, we're going to be outside in the middle of the night and there's gonna be no phones and no one else around," Molly pointed out. "That kinda sounds like something that would happen in a horror movie."

"And who on earth let you watch a horror movie?" Mohinder asked as he pinned Matt with a suspicious scowl.

"Okay, can everybody just stop complaining for one second?" Matt barked, pointedly avoiding Mohinder's gaze and his question. "_Nothing_ is going to happen, okay? No body's going to die, no body's going to get lost, and no body's going to get eaten by a bear! We're just going to have one nice, stress free weekend getting back to nature."

"Enough with the 'getting back to nature,' Matt!" Mohinder huffed. "We're going to a bloody state park, not hiking through the Appalachian Mountains!"

Matt scowled bitterly, his grip on the steering wheel tightening until his knuckles were practically white. "Okay, who wants to play the quiet game?"

Mohinder smirked, but said nothing else as he leaned back in his seat. His smirk quickly turned into a scowl when he noticed the car in the rearview mirror. Either he was still half asleep or that same black Volkswagen had been following them since they left Brooklyn.

"It's probably nothing," Matt muttered, before falling into a stubborn silence for the remainder of the drive.

* * *

It was late morning by the time they got to the park, but from the brightness of the sun, one would easily have assumed that it was the middle of the afternoon. Mohinder squinted as he emerged from the car, stretching his back until he heard a satisfying pop before moving to the rear of the car. They had gotten a decent parking spot, but Mohinder had a feeling that there would still be quite a hike before they actually got to the camp grounds.

"Okay, everybody grab everything you'll need, because we're not coming back here," Matt announced as he pulled out the cooler and portable grill and set them down on the gravel. "Here Mohinder, grab this," he began, handing Mohinder their sleeping bags, before pausing. "Wait a minute, why am I handing you all the light stuff? You're the one with the super bug man strength."

Mohinder felt his face flush slightly at Matt's description of his ability. He was truly getting sick of the man describing his enhanced strength that way. "That may be true, but don't think you're going to turn me into the pack mule on _your_ trip," Mohinder warned tersely even as he grabbed both the cooler and the grill.

"Just makin' a point," Matt said as he grabbed another bag. He paused again before handing it over to the Indian. "May I?"

Mohinder sighed before giving a weary nod.

"Are we gonna run into Bigfoot up here?" Molly asked, shouldering her own backpack.

"No, Molly, I'm pretty sure Bigfoot lives in Canada," Matt said, as he continued to unpack the car.

"Matt, don't say that," Mohinder chided, just as Matt handed him yet another bag. He sighed, stepping away from the trunk to make sure Matt knew that he wasn't carrying anything else. "Bigfoot's not real, Molly."

"What about Sasquatch?"

"Isn't that the same as Bigfoot?"

"Yes it is, and therefore not real."

* * *

By sunset Mohinder was ready to say that camping wasn't nearly as bad as he had made it out to be. Instead, it was much worse. Just as he had anticipated they had hiked half a mile before settling on a camp site and then it was time to put up the tent, which was more complicated than the tent's packaging had promised it would be. Of course it was only once the tent was up that they discovered that it was too small as the three sleeping bags seemed to overlap each other.

Not that Mohinder was expecting to get much sleep that night. The ground beneath them was firm, painfully so, and he doubted that a thin layer of padding was going to make much of a difference.

Molly seemed to be having some fun, though, when she wasn't trying to figure out which large animal was going to attack them first that is. She was more than happy to sit by the camp fire (which Mohinder had started with the aid of a set of matches he had hidden in his pocket) eating hot dogs and roast marshmallows. Yet when it came time to go to bed, she suddenly became quite anxious and reluctant to sleep.

"This is where the murderer comes," she insisted firmly, her light eyes wide as she scanned the thin circle of trees for any unfamiliar shapes. "That's how it goes: we all go to sleep, and an axe wielding maniac comes and chops us up!"

"Molly, nobody is going to kill us," Matt sighed, too tired from the long drive and the hard work involved in a "relaxing" camp trip. "There isn't another person for miles."

"Then it'll be a bear!" Molly muttered, hugging herself tightly.

Matt frowned, rubbing at his eyes wearily as he tried to think of something else to say, but all that came out was a long yawn. Mohinder couldn't blame him for being so unfocused. After all, it had been a very long day for all of them.

"Molly, there aren't any bears here," Mohinder insisted, although in truth, he had absolutely no idea what was out there. He merely wanted to get through the night and the next morning and then head home. "I'll tell you what, why don't you and Matt get some sleep and I'll stay here and keep watch?"

Molly frowned thoughtfully, considering his offer before finally nodding in consent. "Okay," she said, moving in to give Mohinder a hug. "Goodnight Mohinder. Keep the camp fire going."

"I will," he promised, giving her cheek a quick kiss.

As soon as Molly had disappeared inside the tent, Matt crouched down beside him, an uncertain look written all over his face. "You sure you're gonna be okay? It's pretty late."

"I'll be fine," Mohinder sighed, staring into the fire pit dully. "I wasn't exactly going to get much sleep tonight anyway."

"Yeah, I guess."

"Besides, I'll just stay up for another hour or two and then try to squeeze into the tent."

Matt chuckled, patting Mohinder's arm affectionately as he stood up. "Alright. Just make sure you don't step on anybody when you do."

Mohinder hadn't even realized he had fallen asleep until the moment that he woke up. It was night still, that much he could tell right away from the campfire still burning brightly in front of him, yet somehow he knew that it wasn't the same fire he had fallen asleep watching. He frowned as his tired mind suddenly registered the feeling of something combing through his hair and the solid warmth that he was leaning heavily against. It was then that he remembered the black Volkswagen that had been trailing them for most of the drive, disappearing only when they approached the actual park.

Craning his neck up, he wasn't terribly surprised to find himself sitting next to Sylar, his head resting on the serial killer's shoulder as the other man's pale fingers gently stroked his loose curls.

"Sylar," he began to say, but was quickly cut off when a finger pressed against his lips.

"Shhhh..." Sylar soothed, a sound that could _never_ be comforting coming from the man next to him. "I know we're outside, but let's use our indoor voices. Don't want to ruin the peaceful atmosphere."

"I can't believe you followed me out here," Mohinder huffed, pushing himself away from the other man's form. "Well, actually, I _can_ believe that you followed me out here. It's exactly the sort of creepy thing you would do."

"I'm not the one who dragged you out into the middle of the words so you could roll around in some dirt," Sylar scoffed. "I mean, honestly, how the hell is getting lost in the middle of the woods a vacation?"

"I know!" Mohinder exclaimed, thankful that someone was finally seeing his point. "I don't work hard all year long just to spend a day pretending that I'm _homeless_ and... wait a minute. Why am I still talking to you?" The Indian groaned, shaking his head at his own foolishness as he stood up. "I'm going back to my own tent."

"Good luck finding it," Sylar answered instantly, his voice completely disinterested as he stayed perfectly still.

It was only then that Mohinder realized that he had absolutely no idea where he was. It was dark and all the trees looked exactly the same to him. What's more, he had been unconscious when Sylar had taken him, so there was no chance of knowing how far away he was or even in what direction he was supposed to go.

The Indian sighed, looking at the forest longingly. Trapped in the woods in the middle of the night with a serial killer. This was exactly like the plot of a bad horror movie.

The sound of a very loud pop was enough to make Mohinder jump out of his skin. His first instinct was to check himself for a wound, but as the blackened forest settled back into its calm stillness; he realized that the sound was not a gunshot.

"Champagne?" Sylar offered, handing him a glass flute that was filled nearly to the brim with bubbling golden liquid.

"You devious bastard," Mohinder grumbled, just as Sylar offered him a sly smile and plopped a plump red strawberry into the glass. The champagne fizzled, bubbling with frothy white foam that nearly spilled over its rim. "Do you really think I'm going to have sex with you in the middle of the woods?"

"I never said anything about sex," the serial killer said innocently. "Although if you'd like to relax in my tent, that'd be perfectly acceptable."

Mohinder frowned, his eyes going towards the dome shaped tent that was easily twice as big as the one Matt had bought. His scowl deepened as he lifted the flap to check inside. "Is that a blow up mattress?" he asked incredulously.

"Queen Size," Sylar announced. Even though he wasn't looking at him, Mohinder could hear the smug smirk in his voice. "It's even elevated, so we won't be touching the ground at all and I have plenty of warm blankets."

The Indian hummed, weighing his options carefully. He should really get back to the camp to check on Matt and Molly, but stumbling around in the darkened woods was a sure way to get himself hurt. "I suppose I could wait inside until sunrise," Mohinder sighed, accepting the flute of champagne.

Sylar beamed, lifting the flap of the tent and allowing Mohinder entry. "I'll get the massage oil."

* * *

"Man, did you actually fall asleep outside?"

Mohinder blinked in slow confusion at that question. He barely remembered returning to their camp site, but as he stared up at Matt in the early morning light, he slowly began to remember getting up at the crack of dawn, quickly getting dressed and wandering back. Mohinder sighed, adjusting himself on the log that he was currently using as his pillow. He would have thought that it was all a dream if it weren't for the pleasant little aches that he still felt in certain places.

"I guess I did," Mohinder said slowly, fighting against the urge to smirk in response.

"Weren't you cold?" Matt asked, staring pointedly at the now extinguished fire pit.

"Not really." He shrugged, pushing himself into a sitting position so he could brush off the bits of dirt and dead leaves that may have clung to him. "The, uh, the fire kept me pretty warm."

Matt frowned as he crouched down beside him. "Wow, looks like some bugs had a field day on your neck," he commented. "It's all red and blotchy."

Mohinder's face was practically on fire as he adjusted his collar, trying his best to hide the red bite and bruises that decorated his skin. He should have known better than to trust Sylar to be even remotely discrete. "I guess I didn't put on enough bug spray," he chuckled.

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry my dumb camping trip ruined your delicate skin," Matt muttered as he stood up straight and surveyed the area.

"It wasn't a dumb idea," Mohinder sighed. "In fact... I kind of enjoyed myself?"

Matt snorted, rolling his eyes at Mohinder's words. "Yeah, right," he grumbled. "All you did was complain. Did sleeping under the stars really change your mind?"

He shrugged innocently, trying his best not to smile too much. "Something like that."


	13. Holiday Mylar

**Pairing:** Gabriel/Mohinder  
**Rating:** G  
**Prompt/Request:** Mistletoe  
**Warnings:** Fluff, Humor, Slash

"I-it's nothing much really," Gabriel stammered nervously, wiping his palms vigorously against the side of his khaki pants. It was early winter, but the inside of his watch shop suddenly felt like the surface of the sun. "Just a little something that I, uh, thought you might like."

Gabriel could practically feel his heart beat in the tips of his fingers and hear it thrumming in his ears as he watched Mohinder turn the brightly wrapped package in his hands, studying the box curiously with his wide brown eyes.

"This is very thoughtful," Mohinder told him, his bright smile making the young man's knees feel like wet paper. "Um, should I open it now or wait until Christmas?"

"Uh, whatever you want to do, "he said, trying his best to sound casual and indifferent, but inside he was a bundle of nerves. He honestly didn't know whether it would be better if the other man should open his package now, right in front of him, or later when he was out of sight. On the one hand, if Mohinder opened his present now and hated it, his heart would be crushed. On the other hand, if Mohinder waited until later, the anticipation just might kill him.

"I think I'll open it now," the Indian announced. He ripped open the jovial packaging with ease, leaving the tattered remains in a pile on the floor. If Gabriel weren't so enamored, so captivated by the Indian's very movements, he might have been a bit peeved at the mess he was creating. Of course, as usual, infatuation won out over anal-retentive compulsion as Mohinder's eyes lit up at the sight of his gift. "I've been searching for this book for _months_! How did you know?"

"Lucky guess?" he chuckled awkwardly.

"Thank you! This is so sweet."

Without warning, Mohinder took another step towards him, closing the gap between their bodies as he pulled them together in a friendly hug. Gabriel moaned, his head swimming as Mohinder's enchanting sent filled his nostrils, his warmth engulfed his body, and his soft black curls brushed against his cheek. The embrace only lasted a few seconds, but it was just enough to cause Gabriel's knees to give out under his weight.

"Gabriel!" Mohinder gasped, clutching the taller man by his bicep in an attempt to hold him upright. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," he lied, his brain still reeling from the memory of Mohinder's arms being wrapped around his shoulders.

Mohinder let out an uneasy laugh as he helped the watchmaker regain his balance. His laughter faded away when his eyes suddenly caught a glimpse of something above him. "What is that?"

Gabriel tilted his head upward, following Mohinder's line of sight to the leafy green plant taped to the ceiling. "Oh, it looks like we're standing under the mistletoe," he commented innocently, as if he hadn't carefully positioned the two men so that they were standing directly underneath the holiday decoration.

"Mistletoe?" Mohinder repeated skeptically.

"It's a holiday tradition," he explained, his face quickly turning redder as he spoke. "It means we're, uh, supposed to..." he paused briefly to clear his suddenly bone dry throat, "k-kiss."

The Indian chuckled softly, his eyes darting from the mistletoe pinned above them to Gabriel's eager, bright red face. "Well who am I to break tradition?" he laughed, leaning in closely to brush his lips against the watchmaker's burning hot cheek.

The feel of Mohinder's soft lips caressing his heated skin was the last thing he felt before his world slipped away into darkness.

* * *

**Pairing:** Sylar/Mohinder  
**Rating:** PG  
**Prompt/Request:** White Christmas  
**Warnings:** Slash

Numb.

That's how he felt. From head to toe his whole body was numb and all because of the fact that the heater in his damn taxi was completely busted. Instead of immersing the inside of the vehicle in comfortable warmth when switched on to the heat setting his air conditioning blasted the occupants with a biting chill that could rival the winter conditions outside.

So the heater stayed off and as New York City was treated to an unusually cold late fall, Mohinder found his already contemptible job made that much worse. He cringed each time his door was opened, dreading the howling wind and shots of ice that would pierce his already damaged skin. He would rub his hands together vigorously at each all to brief stop, only to find that the chill would quickly move from the tips of his fingers to his much abused cheeks.

And as if things couldn't get much worse, mid afternoon it started to snow and showed no signs of letting up for the remainder of the day. Blankets of puffy white flurries fell from the sky, covering his windshields and making it that much harder to drive.

Sadly, the wintery weather did nothing to lighten the mood of his customers. Each person who entered his cab seemed to be terser than the last, barking out directions at him as if he were some half deaf, dim-witted pet who was completely unable to retain the most basic information for more than five minutes. If he didn't know any better, Mohinder would have sworn that his fairs had all been in league with one another, each one trying to outdo the other on who could be the most miserable to a complete stranger.

After a few hours of the verbal abuse, the Indian had decided to simply tune out the ungrateful group - a task that proved to be much harder than he had anticipated - by focusing his mind instead on merely getting to where he was supposed to be going or listening to the seasonal music on the radio that his supervisor insisted be played at all times. The result was for his mind to drift off into a haze and all the faces of his fairs to blur together, although that wasn't too different from any other day.

When the end of his shift came, Mohinder was all too eager to punch out for the day. His back was sore, his eyes stung, and his fingers felt as if they would snap off if twisted in just the right way.

He was less than half way through filling out his time sheet when one of his co-workers had approached him from behind, interrupting his train of thought and the stroke of his pen.

"Mohinder, I found this in your taxi."

Mohinder frowned, turning to see the other driver holding a bright red package with a golden ribbon in his hands. "It's not mine," Mohinder said simply. "Put it in the lost and found box."

"It has your name on it," his co-worker clarified, indicating the envelope attached to the center of the package.

His frown only deepened as the other man unceremoniously dumped the package in his hands before turning to walk away, completely indifferent to the situation at hand. Mohinder, on the other hand, had been at the center of far too many strange events as of late to take even the most seemingly innocent occurrence lightly.

The hand writing on the envelope was simple, neat, and completely unfamiliar. There was no address, no other name, or even a date written on the piece of paper. Just his name.

Tucking the package under his arm, the Indian delicately peeled off the envelope and felt it thoroughly, testing to see if there were any strange lumps or sags. From what he could feel, the only thing inside was a note on fairly thick piece of paper.

Ripping the envelope open, the geneticist saw that there was only a card inside. On the front, the card displayed a picture of a morose looking snowman standing in front of a log cabin in the middle of the night. The Indian rolled his eyes at the cliche holiday artwork as he flipped the card open. The typical winter slogans of Happy Holidays or Merry Christmas were completely absent. There was only a simple message written in the same careful handwriting:

_Take care._

Mohinder quirked a curious eyebrow at the cryptic note as he placed the card down and began tearing away at the festive wrapping paper, only to discover a thin white box underneath. Lifting the lid and pulling away the red tissue paper, the Indian was greeted by the sight of a clean white scarf and a matching pair of gloves.

The geneticist let out a quiet laugh as he gently fingered the soft material. It figured that when he had let his guard down the shape shifter had managed to sneak in. He had to admit, Sylar was nothing if not persistent.

* * *

**Pairing:** Sylar/Mohinder  
**Rating:** G  
**Prompt/Request:** Spiked Eggnog  
**Warnings:** Fluff, Humor, Slash, Drinking

"Oh God!" Mohinder grimaced, his nose wrinkling in distaste as the creamy white liquid slid down his throat. "How much rum did you put in this?"

Sylar frowned, eyeing the now empty bottle of rum questioningly, wondering momentarily if he had purchased too strong of a proof. "Not that much," he lied easily.

The Indian coughed as he gently placed his now empty glass down with a soft clink. "It's _strong_!"

"No, it isn't," Sylar scoffed, rolling his eyes with mock indignation at Mohinder's comment. "You just have a low tolerance for alcohol."

"Oh really?" Mohinder snapped, grabbing another glass and pouring the holiday drink in it. "_You_ drink it then."

Sylar hesitated for just a moment, wondering if his rapid regeneration would act quickly enough that he wouldn't feel the burn at all. He had never been a very big drinker. As Gabriel Gray, ginger ale was the most daring thing he d be willing to consume and right now the idea of taking a swig of his own spiked eggnog did not sit well with him. Yet Sylar pushed those thoughts aside as he grasped the glass in his fingers. After all, the longer he waited, the more he assured Mohinder's assumptions.

Sylar held his breath as he took a long gulp of the rum filled eggnog. He had to resist the urge to gag as the intense flavor smacked his taste buds with a bitter spark of fire. The serial killer grimaced, swallowing the burning hot liquid and realizing he had been far too liberal with the rum.

"Jinkies!" he gagged, placing the glass down on the counter with a slight thud.

"You see!" Mohinder cried, crossing his arms over his chest indignantly. "Even you think it's too strong and you have your damned rapid regeneration to keep you sober. You were clearly trying to spike my eggnog and... Did you just say 'jinkies'?"

"No."

"But I could have sworn that I heard-"

"I didn't say 'jinkies'!" he barked, although the killer knew that the pink blush coloring his pale cheeks gave him away.

"You're such a geek!" Mohinder giggled and Sylar had to wonder if Mohinder had been sneaking drinks behind his back because there was no way the geneticist would actually _giggle_ in front of him if he were sober. The Indian had a too eager grin pulling at his lips as he picked up the glass Sylar had pushed away and handed it back to him. "Take another drink! I want to hear what you say."

Sylar frowned, cocking his head curiously at the other man's uncharacteristic behavior. "Are you making fun of the way I drink?"

"Yes."

His frown deepened. This was not exactly what he had had in mind when he had spiked Mohinder's drink. He had wanted to get the other man drunk enough to give him some sloppy, drunken, pre-Christmas sex (since Mohinder was being very stingy with his body lately). Instead, the Indian was laughing at him and trying to get _him _drunk (although that was an impossible task and they both knew it). Yet he couldn't resist Mohinder, especially when he was tipsy and smiling so brightly, as if they had not spent the better half of their yearlong acquaintanceship as on again off again mortal enemies.

He sighed, before taking another gulp of the cream colored drink. "Ugh!" he shuddered. "Oh _golly_!"

* * *

**Pairing:** Sylar/Mohinder  
**Rating:** PG  
**Prompt/Request:** 'Tis the Season  
**Warnings:** Humor, Slash

"A clip on tie."

"That doesn't sound too bad."

"It is when you're twenty-five."

"Oh."

"Your turn."

Mohinder was quiet as he thought over the matter very carefully. "A pack of triple A batteries," he said finally.

"Did they go with anything?" Sylar asked, knowing right away that Chandra had most likely been the one to give this gift to Mohinder.

"No," the Indian said simply, his response quick and seemingly indifferent, but Sylar caught the bitterness lingering there. "Your turn."

Sylar sighed, adjusting himself slightly so his bare shoulder "accidentally" brushed up against Mohinder's equally exposed arm. "A sweater," he grumbled bitterly." And before you say anything, if you'd seen it you'd understand." He shuddered internally at the memory of the bright red Christmas sweater with the sloppily stitched on snowman and reindeer that his grandmother had made for him. Horrible.

The geneticist said nothing; he merely shifted himself so that he was sitting further away from the other man. Sylar bit his cheek to keep himself from frowning at the gesture, trying instead to focus on the far too loud music seeping into the dark room from the other side of the door.

"I don't think I can hide in here much longer," Mohinder sighed, brushing a few stray curls out of his eyes wearily. "Someone's going to come looking for me eventually."

The serial killer didn't even bother to nod as he quietly grabbed Mohinder's discarded clothing and stealthily pulling them behind his back, hoping that the lighting was just dim enough that the other man would not notice the movement.

"So what are you hoping to get this year?"

Mohinder frowned, raising a questioning eyebrow at him, but even as he did so Sylar felt safe in knowing that he had already hidden the other man's clothes out of sight. "What do you mean?"

"For Christmas?" he supplied helpfully.

"I don't celebrate Christmas," he scoffed.

"But you're at a Christmas party."

"I think the politically correct term would be Holiday party," the Indian corrected smugly. "And I'm only here because I was invited. You'll find that not killing random people and ripping their skulls open tends to make you rather popular."

"I'll keep that in mind. Maybe I'll make it my New Year s resolution. No more stealing brains. Instead, I'll just kidnap and cocoon my victims."

Mohinder scowled distastefully, clutching the lab coat wrapped around his waist tighter in his hands and shifting away from him. "At least I m apologetic," Mohinder shot back. "You have no remorse for anything you've done."

"Alright, then I'll show how remorseful I am by getting you a Christmas present. What would you want?"

"I don't celebrate Christmas," Mohinder reminded him, shaking his head wearily, yet Sylar took the fact that he was still sitting next to him as a good sign. "Besides, I don't want anything that you could buy in a store."

"Well it's the season of gift giving, so just play along. Let's say I could get you anything, _anything_ you wanted, what would it be?"

The Indian sighed, leaning his head back against the wall with an audible thud. "I want a new life," Mohinder grumbled. "I want... I want a better career. I want to go home and not worry that the whole world is going to crumble around me while I'm asleep."

"I can do that."

The look the other man gave him was absolutely priceless. It was an intriguing mix of skepticism, annoyance, and curiosity.

Sylar beamed, scooting closer to Mohinder and using his telekinesis to pull the other man's naked form closer to him. "You and me and a tropical island," he told him, wrapping a pale arm around the Indian's dark shoulder. "We can just lie out in the sun and forget all our cares."

"An island getaway does sound pleasant," Mohinder laughed, pushing Sylar's arm away from him. "But the you part not so much."

The serial killer frowned, opening his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by the sound of someone trying to open the locked door. "Is someone in there?" a voice called in between frantic knocks.

"Time's up," Mohinder sighed, scrambling to his feet and looked around the small office desperately. "Have you seen my clothes?"

"They're over there, I think," Sylar lied, pointing in the opposite direction of the small pile he had hidden behind his back. As Mohinder turned and looked in the direction Sylar had indicated, the serial killer took the opportunity to grab the Indian man's underwear and stuff it into his pocket. "Never mind, I found them."

Mohinder turned around just as Sylar tossed the pile of clothing in his direction. The geneticist muttered a quick thanks as the American quickly dressed himself.

"Where's my underwear?" Mohinder asked wearily. "Every time we do this it disappears! Why does that always happen?"

"I have no idea," Sylar shrugged, taking a moment to finger the pale blue boxers that he had stuffed into his pocket.

He had probably stolen at least a dozen boxers, half a dozen briefs, and two sets of boxer briefs from Mohinder over the past few months. In his mind, that meant that he owed the Indian man a little more than an island vacation and fortunately for the geneticist, Sylar was in a giving mood. After all, it was the season.


End file.
